


Futility

by Kachelofen



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kachelofen/pseuds/Kachelofen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four and a half years post-series. Justin is in New York and has lost touch.  He and Brian keep running into each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The POV alternates between Brian and Justin. There are also flashbacks in some chapters, which are not consecutive, but rather relate to events in the present.

**PART ONE**

As I look myself over in the restroom mirror, I wonder if I'll ever look my age. I still look much younger than my twenty-seven years, even if I say so myself. To this day, I get carded from time to time, but I tend to frequent mostly the same places nowadays and people know that I’m well over twenty-one. With the right clothes though, I could probably still pass as a teenager. Of course, tonight I'm dressed for the occasion in a grey button-down and black designer slacks, as befits the restaurant of the Four Seasons Hotel.

 _Make up your mind, Taylor._ I've just finished dinner with William Forrester, a businessman from Ohio, who's in New York for a trades convention. Forrester is exactly how Phil described him, when he booked me for this evening three days ago.

“He seems really nice. The other guys like him, but he's ugly as sin. Old, too. He asks for a different guy every time he’s in town. So now it’s your turn.”

I don’t much care what the clients look like. I get paid for four hours of my time to provide company to rich, gay businessmen, who don’t want to have to hunt around for a companion in a strange city. ‘ _Cinderella_ ’ has a good reputation for providing high-class escorts and we are very pricey. Hence, the clientele is rich, usually older, and sophisticated.

Well, that's the theory anyway. I can’t even count any longer how many of these ‘sophisticated’ clients treat me like a common street hustler, grabbing various body parts throughout the evening and offering me money to accompany them to their room – or not, if they feel that, for what they're paying, that particular service should be included. Sometimes I wonder if Phil even bothers to tell them that putting out is not part of the deal. But judging by their treatment of me, they probably just don’t listen.

It doesn’t help that more than half of the other guys on Phil’s books use their job to make extra money by taking things all the way after the four-hour period is over. Phil doesn’t mind as long as they don’t tell him. Neither does he mind that I don't include sex in my services. What I do include is tricking. If a client strikes my fancy and doesn’t assume that I'll let him fuck me, I sometimes go with him to his room afterwards. Always on my own initiative, always just for a fuck, not the whole night and I never take any money. Although inevitably, it is always offered if he's still awake when I leave.

Forrester doesn't fit into either category. He certainly doesn't make me want to jump his bones. He's really no beauty, with a receding hairline and plain features dominated by a large nose. But his small, watery-gray eyes sparkle when he talks and his slightly self-deprecating humor had me laughing all the way through the evening. He's unassuming, even a little shy, and talks about his life in Ohio with such wit, it seems that we've only been here for an hour instead of just over three.

We've talked about politics, religion and art and Forrester glossed over the fact that he's married and has two children with obvious embarrassment. I’m not judgmental on that score. To each his own. At Forrester’s age – he must be around fifty – and living in the Midwest, life must have been very different from being gay in Pittsburgh in the new millennium. Or – given my own experiences after coming out – maybe Forrester just took the smarter route.  

There is certainly no assumption on his part that I'm going to fuck him after dinner. If I want to have sex tonight, I'll have to make the first move or at least start flirting heavily because Forrester is too shy to take subtle hints. _Make up your mind, Taylor, because now's the time to steer this thing in the right direction._ I haven’t had a fuck for a week and I’m feeling horny, so that would take care of the obvious problem of not being attracted to the guy.

Or I could just go to a club afterwards and pull a guy there. But it's already late and it would really make Forrester’s day. Sometimes, being truly appreciated makes up for a lot of other things. He really _is_ a nice guy.

I dry my hands and leave the restroom. Forrester smiles at me when I sit back down, looking almost relieved, as if he didn’t quite expect me to return. “You must be tired,” he says. “If you wish, we can end the evening here. I won’t tell your boss. I had a really good time.”

Jeez, this guy is definitely too nice for his own good. What he actually means is: you must be tired of my company. And he’s paid for another hour. He should really do something about his self-esteem issues.

“I’m in no rush.” I smile. “Why don’t we have a drink at the hotel bar?”

Forrester’s eyes light up. “Really? That would be great.”

That does it. I’m gonna fuck some confidence into this guy tonight. But not yet. I'll do that on my own time. That's strictly for fun.

We make our way over to the bar, which is adjacent to the dining room. Forrester walks next to me with a proud smile on his face and my heart constricts a bit when I realize how long it's been since anyone has been this proud just to be seen with me. We choose one of the small tables and order some drinks.

“Oh damn, I know that guy,” Forrester says suddenly. I deliberately don’t turn around to follow his gaze. Usually, the clients don't mind being spotted with a handsome young man for company. Most of them are out and just too lazy or too old to go clubbing during their business trips, but if Forrester knows this guy from Ohio, it could be bad news for him. The last thing I want is ruin his life.

“What do you want to do?” I ask quietly.

“I think it'll be all right. I don’t think he's the type to go expose anyone. Oh, here he comes.”

I wait until the other guy approaches, not looking up until his shadow falls over our table. _Nothing to see here, buddy. Just two guys having a conversation. Nothing to gossip about._ Ordinarily, Forrester’s astonishing transformation from shy conversation partner to jovial and confidant businessman would leave me with no small amount of admiration, but as it is, I completely forget he's even in the room. _Oh my fucking God, it can’t be!_

My mouth is dry and my heartbeat stops for a moment, only to pick up again at double speed. I grip the arms of my chair until my knuckles turn white. Five courses of dinner vie with two glasses of wine and a sip of scotch for a starting position to make it back up my throat. _Fuck, it_ is _him!_

“Mr. Forrester,” he says in his best business voice. “You're a long way from home.”

“Just visiting for a conference. What’s your excuse?”

“I have a few business meetings. It’s nice to see you again.”

“The pleasure's all mine. May I introduce you? This is Justin Taylor. Justin, this is Brian Kinney, my advertising consultant.”

Brian turns to me with his familiar smile. “Justin and I are well acquainted. Long time no see, Justin. How long has it been?” His voice shows no hint of surprise. He's always so fucking calm. I'm hoping he doesn’t want to shake hands because my sweaty palms would be a dead giveaway for how I'm feeling right now. But he makes no effort to come closer, nor does his smile quite reach his eyes.

 _Three years, eight months, three weeks and four days._ “A while. How have you been?” Wow, that actually came out quite normal. Maybe I can get through this without making a complete idiot of myself.

“Ah, same old, same old.”

“Did you just call yourself old?”

“Hardly. I was referring to the daily grind of life.”

Ah, he's still touchy on that subject. Or maybe even more so since he’s nearing forty. But then I look at him properly and if there ever was a guy who has nothing to fear from getting older, it's Brian. He looks just as good as, if not better than, he did four years ago. I haven’t really aged myself, but Brian... Brian just got even more beautiful than he was then.

“Would you like to join us?” Forrester asks. What is he playing at? He has another three-quarters of an hour of my exclusive company and he asks some guy – who he must know is gay – to join us? One who's so hot he isn’t even competition because when Brian is around, anybody else might as well just pack up and go home.

“Thank you, but I just came over to say hello. I’m here with a business associate.” He makes a vague gesture to somewhere behind me. “It was nice to see you again, Mr. Forrester. You too, Justin.”

Forrester says goodbye to him and I can only nod. And then Brian saunters away like he didn’t just meet me for the first time in nearly four years, like we were no more than acquaintances. Didn’t he actually say that, that we're ‘acquainted’? Did meeting me mean no more to him than taking two minutes out of his busy schedule? If he had spat in my face, it couldn’t have hurt more.

“Justin?”

When I look at Forrester, I get the distinct impression that he's been calling me for some time. I apologize.

“How long have you known him?” he asks.

“About ten years.”

“So, not an ex then.”

“What makes you say that?” 

“You would have been too young.”

“I was seventeen.”

“That _is_ young.”

“He was even younger.”

He laughs. “Yes, I can well imagine you being wise beyond your years.”

I'm torn between wanting to get up and get as far away from this place as fast as I possibly can, so that I won’t have to glimpse Brian and his latest trick, and wanting to stomp over there to ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing, treating me the way he did. Or failing that, maybe find the nearest toilet to be sick in. But I'm being paid to be here and we still have another forty minutes on the clock.

Forrester smiles at me. “I'm really tired, Justin.  Would you mind terribly if we cut this short, so I can go up to my room?”

“Not at all,” I say. “I would be very happy to keep you company again next time you’re in town. We could make up for the time you’re missing.” _And the fuck, because you so deserve it._

“I would like that,” he says and gets up.

I rise as well and when he shakes my hand, I pull him closer, so I can kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Take care of yourself.”

I don’t even watch him walk away. I just sink back into my seat and try to prepare myself to walk out of here without turning around to see where Brian is sitting. He was so deliberately casual that I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me look. I’m not that guy anymore, that love-sick teenager, whose world revolves around Brian Kinney. Even if I were, I wouldn't let him see it anymore. That would be too mortifying.

Just as I’m finishing my drink, the waiter arrives with another one. My heart speeds up at the thought that it's from Brian, but he says, “With compliments from Mr. Forrester.” Of course, the guy who was nice to me all evening and made an excuse to leave when he realized that I've been deeply affected by my encounter with his consultant. The same guy I completely forgot about as soon as he got up and left. Because somewhere behind me sits the man who can reduce all my thinking to a single sharp focus trained on himself.

 _Get up and leave, now!_ It should be easy enough, but somehow it's not. Only the thought that he might walk past me on his way out, completely ignoring me, finally makes me gulp down the drink and prepare to get up.

“Mind if I join you?” The familiar voice washes over me. And then Brian is sitting down opposite me without waiting for an answer, placing another drink in front of me.

“What about your ‘business associate’?” I ask mockingly, sinking back down. In fact, if I could disappear into the chair, that would be perfectly fine with me. What is this feeling of wanting this to be over as quickly as possible and wanting it to last forever at the same time? If I just walk away, he can’t say anything further that will hurt me and that I'll ponder about for days and even weeks, turning it round and round in my head until I have dissected every nuance of it. But if I stay, I can look at him and hear his voice. And tomorrow I'll be able to paint him and the feeling he evokes.

“It was past his bedtime,” he says lightly.

“Shouldn’t you be tucking him in?”

“Oh please, he’s nearly sixty. I’m not in the market for a sugar daddy.” He smiles, waits a couple of beats and then continues with that perfect timing and that tone of disdain that he does so incredibly well, “But you seem to be.”

“Forrester? He's just... a friend.”

He chuckles. “You're friends with a fifty-year-old geezer, who owns a farming equipment business in Ohio? How did you two even meet?”

“A friend introduced us.” Well, that at least, isn’t a lie. “What’s it to you?”

“Just curious.“ He shrugs. “Especially, since you’re not all that good at the long-distance thing, as we all know.” He glares at me with angry eyes over a polite smile.

Classic Kinney. So it’s all my fault now? I'm not going to take that without fighting back. “So what if he _is_ my sugar daddy? I still owe the last one money, so I could do with a new one.”

“I was never your sugar daddy!” he snaps. _Yes! Direct score!_ He recovers immediately and smirks. “I'm way too young to be a sugar daddy.”

I just laugh. That should be enough to set him off, maybe even make him leave. But it isn’t.

“Where do you live nowadays?”

“Same place as before. With Marissa. I would be stupid to move. It’s rent-free.”

“Ah, yes, a sugar mommy instead of a daddy.”

“Brian, that's just gross. Did you come over here specifically to piss me off?”

“No, actually, I came over here because I want to fuck you. I have a room upstairs. D’you wanna come?” He raises an eyebrow suggestively at the double entendre.

I nearly drop my glass of whisky, which I’m just finishing so that I can walk out of here, and stare at him. Did he just ask me to come up to his room to fuck? His smile disappears, to be replaced by one of his predatory looks, with his tongue peeking out briefly to leave his bottom lip glistening. It's all so very familiar.

I gulp down my drink and get up without a word.

 

******

 

When I spot Justin across the bar, walking in with some balding old guy, I nearly choke on my drink. I must have been in New York dozens of times, but I've never run across him, nor have I ever expected to. Always told myself that I didn’t even want to, really. It's been a long time and that old saying about time healing all wounds never tells you that they can be ripped back open in a heartbeat.

They sit down at one of the tables and Justin is hidden from my view by the back of the armchair he's sitting in. As I'm looking at his companion properly for the first time, the guy’s eyes fall on me and I recognize him at the same time as he recognizes me. Well, I’ll be damned, it’s William Forrester. I'd know him anywhere because he's one of the ugliest guys I've ever come across. But he's also damn nice with it. I always had him pegged as one of us, despite his wife and kids, because he constantly looks at my lips when I'm talking to him.

Forrester says something to Justin and I wait for the blond head to peer around the side of the chair at me, but when nothing happens, I get up and make my way over there. I can’t ignore one of my clients, it would be bad business practice. So I go over to say hello, just a quick one, and then I can get out of here.

Forrester is as nice as he ever was, responding to my light-hearted words in kind. Then he introduces me to Justin. I really don’t want to be introduced to Justin, or talk to him. But at least I have the advantage of being prepared. He is staring at me as if he’s seeing a ghost. Then he recovers quickly and starts mocking me, like we haven’t been away from each other for over three years. Does he really think he can just pretend no time has passed?

I decline an invitation to join them, which Forrester probably isn’t serious about anyway, not if he's in his right mind and wants to fuck Justin. Why Justin might want to fuck him is beyond me. Maybe he's on one of his goodwill trips where he tries to persuade himself that, as beauty is only skin deep, he's above such considerations. Forrester is just the kind of guy who would fit the bill.

I should have just said that I want to retire, but instead I go on about a business associate. I can’t think of another excuse not to join them and still stay in the bar. When I return to my table, I choose a seat with my back to them, but if I turn my head, I can just see them in the mirror behind the bar. If they realize that I'm on my own, I can always say that the other guy had to leave. They won’t be paying attention to me anyway. Justin can’t see me from where he's sitting, and why the fuck would Forrester even spare me a glance when he has Justin sitting across from him? Someone he can fuck. He knows I would never consider him.

Now that I have seen Justin, I can’t just leave. He looks incredible. Justin's always been beautiful in an almost ethereal kind of way, with his pale skin, blond hair and evenly proportioned features. Now he's lost some of his softness and his body has filled out ever so slightly and even his hair has darkened just a shade – and he is breathtaking. Nicely dressed, too, in Armani trousers and Hugo Boss shirt.

I just want to see him walk out. No way am I missing the opportunity to take a good look at that perfect ass of his one more time. So I'll have to see him walk out with Forrester, knowing what they're going to do, but it will be worth it for that ass.

After about five minutes, Forrester gets up and Justin does, too. That kiss on the cheek looks very much like a goodbye to me. I wait a while, expecting Justin to get up again and leave any moment now. The waiter brings him another drink and then... nothing. What is he waiting for? It's unlikely that he's a guest at the hotel. Why would he be, when he lives in this town? Then, after a while, I’m starting to wonder if he's waiting for me to walk out, to have a look at _my_ ass _._ The idea makes me smirk. I can do better than that.

Of course, Justin starts us off by accusing me of tricking. Well, it sounds accusatory anyway, though what business of his it might be nowadays is beyond me, but it does give me an opportunity to bring the conversation round to the question of what he's doing with Forrester. I even get in a barbed comment about long-distance relationships. None of that fazes him in the slightest.

And then he has the cheek to call me his sugar daddy. I was never his sugar daddy! Okay, I paid for a lot of stuff. He didn’t have anybody to do that for him at the time and I wasn’t exactly short of money even then, so why not? But I never asked for any services in return. That's a completely different matter and totally separate from the money. Or maybe not? So I'm a great fuck and I’m not paranoid enough to think that he was faking it the whole time. But was the money part of the reason he stayed so long when things were obviously not working out? _Just don’t think about it, Kinney._

I ask him where he lives. I never got the deal with this Marissa girl. He seems to be really chummy with her and she lets him live there for free. The look on his face when I call her his sugar mommy is priceless. I just wish Craig could see how disgusted his son looks when somebody suggests he's in a hetero relationship. Okay, so I don’t really think he's banging her, but I've never met the girl and something seems off to me.

He looks like he’s had just about enough of me, so I might as well piss him off completely by asking him to fuck. If he storms out, at least I'll get a good long look at his ass, as I'm facing the exit now. True to form, he gulps down his drink and gets up.

“You wanna lead the way?”

Typical Justin. Look and feel outraged and then do it anyway. I hesitate for just one moment, completely surprised by his words and then get up quickly, smirking the whole time. He walks beside me to the elevator and stands leaning against the mirrored wall until we reach my floor and then follows me to my room, all in complete silence.

I put the ‘do not disturb’ sign out and have just shut the door, when he pushes me against it and starts kissing me. Okay, we're off to a good start. I was worried that he might want to talk for a while first, but now it seems more likely that the talking will come afterwards. I open my mouth and let his tongue invade. This is not quite how I remember it. Even during our rough fucks, the kissing was always a degree or two softer. But it suits me just fine.

I start undressing him, fast, while still taking care of his designer clothes. God only knows how he supports himself nowadays. He isn’t quite as careful, but at least he manages to leave all the buttons on my shirt intact and to not get it ripped. When we're naked, I walk him backwards towards the bedroom and he already has his hand on my cock, jerking me.

“Patience,” I laugh and hold his hands away from my body. I don’t want to embarrass myself by coming from just a handjob - which isn't usually a problem for me, I must say. He just goes back to kissing me, slowing us down further until we get to the bed and I push him onto it. He bounces a little and smiles. “Nice.” I can’t tell if he means the bed or me, because he's looking me up and down with that lustful stare that I remember so well. My cock is twitching overtime.

I chuck a handful of condoms and some lube from the drawer in the bedside table onto the bed beside his head. He looks at them, then at me and raises his eyebrows with a smirk.

“You’re doubting I can fuck you that many times?” I challenge.

“Let’s see then,” he challenges me back and we go about trying to use up all seven condoms I randomly grabbed from the drawer.

 

In the end, he cries off after the fourth times, saying he isn’t used to that much fucking anymore. I refrain from asking him more about that and he doesn't elaborate. By now, it's about four in the morning and we still haven’t really said much more than ‘harder’, ‘faster’ and ‘God, yes’. Justin gets up and goes into the bathroom and after I hear the toilet flush, the water in the sink keeps running for a long time.

I really want to ask him about a hundred questions about his life. He's lost touch with people and I know that everybody will interrogate me endlessly when I tell them I've seen Justin. _If_ I tell them I've seen Justin. I can just imagine that conversation: ‘Yeah, I saw him. We fucked and then he left.’ That will go down really well. And do I actually _want_ to know what he's up to nowadays? Hear how he's happy now? How he's found his niche?  

He doesn’t seem to be in a chatty mood either, but maybe he's just waiting until after the fucking to start a conversation. The question is: what would that accomplish? Do I really think we'll be friends? The very idea is ludicrous. He'd just manage to crawl under my skin again and then I'd be left with trying to get rid of that constant itch there. No, things are better left the way they are.

I gather his clothes and fold them neatly on the bed. Then I put on my jeans, not bothering to do them up and get myself a drink while I wait for him to come out of the bathroom. He's just a minute or so longer and then he walks out, stark naked and so incredibly beautiful. He looks at me and then at his clothes on the bed and gets dressed in silence, without looking at me any further.

When he's finished, he walks to the door, where he turns around and our eyes meet. “It was nice to see you, Brian,” he says with a slight smile.

“You too.”

He nods and walks out the door. And that is the end of my encounter with Justin Taylor after I haven’t seen him for over three years.

 

******

 

This is the first time that I'm actually sneaking along hotel corridors. I'm used to walking out of hotels at all hours of the night, after tricking with one of my clients and, in general, the hotel staff is used to worse things than some guy coming out of another guy’s room in the middle of the night. But it isn’t the staff I'm trying to avoid. The idea of running into William Forrester is what makes me speed up to get away as quickly as possible. He was so nice and if it wasn’t for Brian, I probably would have fucked him, so I don’t want to rub his nose in the fact that I chose someone over him at the last minute. He doesn’t know that I'll always choose Brian. And, of course, he's asleep  in his bed, like the good man that he is. At least, there's no sign of him.

The hotel doorman opens the door for me and wishes me a good night. He even calls me ‘sir’. It certainly has advantages to trick with guys who can afford the best establishments. I step into the paling of the dawn and just start walking. I could take a taxi and charge it to the agency, as that's part of the deal, but I'm too wound up to go home yet.

 _Brian_. I saw Brian after all this time. In my mind, I see him every day and at some point I convinced myself that he cannot possibly be as beautiful as I remember him. He isn’t. He's even more so. I spoke to him and his voice washed over me like a soothing balm. How can someone’s voice alone calm and excite at the same time? Every word sent shivers all over my body, no matter what he was talking about. Even his snarkiness was bliss.

And then he fucked me within an inch of my life and there will never, ever, be anybody who can fuck me like he can, even if I live to be a hundred. Nobody will ever give me that feeling, that it's safe to let go of every single fear and inhibition that I have. He made me feel like that from our very first night together and, despite everything, he managed to make me feel it tonight.

I was overwhelmed by the sensations of touching his skin, of his hands on my body, his lips on mine, those beautiful open-mouth kisses. And for five hours, I managed to pretend that this was real, that the feelings pouring out of me were right and wanted and even returned. The last two rounds were so slow and tender and I was savoring every last drop of Brian’s attention. Just being with him would have been enough for me, but of course nowadays we need an excuse to be together. If we aren’t occupied with fucking, we have to do something else, like talk for instance and that's no longer an option.

My mother always told me that if I'm ever unsure about what to do in a situation, I should ask myself what outcome I really want. If I think it possible that it can be achieved by my actions, then I should go ahead, however unlikely success might be, but if I know in advance that I can’t possibly get what I want, then I should just not bother. Because that can only mean that I'll get hurt.

Now with Brian, things always work out when I'm sure of what I can accomplish. It doesn’t matter if everyone else thinks that I'm delusional, as long as I know I will get there in the end. I dragged Brian into a relationship because I saw him differently from everyone else. I saw more. I saw better. I just had to bring it out in him. Whenever I doubt that I can get what I want and need, I give up. Hence my stupid mistakes along the way, like Ethan.

But this time there's no goal. Brian already gave me everything at some point and then he took it away again. I have no idea what I want anymore, how this can possibly work and I have no doubt that even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to get it. I don’t want to be Brian’s fuck buddy. I don’t want to be Brian’s friend – although he was always that. I could never be anything less than his partner. His lover. His love. Anything else would hurt too much.

So while I'm in the bathroom, I decide that I'll have to leave straight away because whatever Brian's going to say to me will stay in my head forever. I'll go over it again and again until it drives me mad. I've done that too many times before with hurtful things he said to me. And the problem is that there simply isn’t anything he can say that won’t hurt, even if he tried.

But of course, Brian pre-empts me, as always. When I come out of the bathroom, he's got dressed and my clothes are piled on the bed. And even though I want to leave, it hurts like hell. I suppose it's better than, ‘We’re done. Now fuck off’, but it amounts to the same thing. Maybe he feels that he owes me that much, that he owes me not to say the actual words and I should be grateful for that. Consideration Kinney-style.

 

I walk and walk, but it doesn't really make me feel any better. In the end, I stop by the Starbucks down the road from us and go home from there. 

Marissa is in the kitchen, already starting on her cleaning. I'm too tired and too preoccupied to comment. I just look pointedly at her hands covered in yellow rubber gloves and she ignores me. It must be a bad day. Well, today she can just join the club.

“Hi,” she smiles. “I take it your night went well then? Your client wasn’t as bad as Phil said?”

I put her coffee on the counter and take off my jacket. “He was actually really sweet. Phil was right about his looks, though.”

“So you didn’t meet the love of your life tonight either, then?”

Marissa always teases me that one night I will meet the right guy on one of my assignments and everything will be well in my life. Of course, she knows that it’s never going to happen. We talked about my life often enough for her to understand that.

“Actually, I did meet the love of my life tonight. And I went to his room with him, too.”

She creases her forehead. “You did?”

“Brian was at the hotel.”

“Oh my God! What happened?”

So I tell her. I always tell her everything. We've been friends for three years now, living in the same house and even though we both have other friends, we spend three quarters of our time in each other’s company. She's old enough to be my mother and I'm sure she looks upon me as a kind of surrogate son. I have that effect on women. Only, because she isn’t really my mother, I can tell her things that you couldn't possibly share with your mom. I need that right now. I need to go over every word, every nuance, every gesture, and every touch in minutest detail to analyze it and understand it and file it away, so I can take it out at some point in the future, like a treasured photograph.

“So what are you gonna do now?”

“Do? Nothing.”

“Don’t you want to see him again?”

“He treated me like a common trick, Rissa.”

“And you weren’t gonna do the same to him? Or are you just annoyed that he beat you to it?”

“What? No! Of course not. I just can’t see this going anywhere, is all. Brian's still Brian. I’m still me. He’s still in Pittsburgh and I’m here.”

“Yes, I can see how all of that is written in stone.” She does that slightly mocking thing, that always manages to bring her point across rather well.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“A place is just a place, Justin. You can live anywhere and so can he. You just have to decide where. As for you being who you are, well, you were those same two people ten and five years ago and somehow it worked. Why not now?”

“It’s too late now anyway. I’m going to bed.”

“You always say it’s too late. Why do I get the impression that you think it’s even later now?” she asks, while I make my way to the door.

“Because now he thinks I’m a whore.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**PART TWO**

“I have a treat for you tonight,” Callum Leland says with a teasing smile, as we're travelling in his chauffeured car. I was surprised when Phil told me that Cal booked me for the evening. Cal was one of my earliest clients, the first one that I actually fucked. For his fifty years, he's very distinguished looking and in good shape. And that British accent really gets me. After the fuck, I told him that I would accept no further bookings from him, but he persuaded me to change my mind.

My clients usually want dinner and drinks, plus a fuck if they can get it, or someone to go clubbing with if they're younger. Someone who knows his way around the place and who's attractive enough to make them feel good about being seen with him. In general, it's about having some pleasant company for an evening and pretending that the good-looking young man with them is actually _with_ them.

Cal is different. For starters, he has a boyfriend, going on for eighteen months now. And secondly, whenever he books me nowadays, it's always to accompany him to an event, and always to do with the Arts. Thanks to him, I've been to premieres, gallery openings and private showings that I would never have had access to on my own. Really, I should be paying _him._

“Shouldn’t _I_ be supplying the treats?” I ask, smiling. “Anyway, where's Larry tonight?”

“Ah, you know how he isn’t interested in this kind of thing. And he's away for a few days.”

“Business?” I ask with a chuckle. Like that’s likely. As far as I can tell, Larry is only interested in drinking, clubbing and fucking. Ah yes, and spending Cal’s money.

“Alas, no. Palm Springs. The White Party.”

I simply cannot understand why a man like Cal is wasting his time and a considerable amount of money on a guy like Larry. Yes, he's smoking hot. And yes, he's young, younger than me by a few years. But he is also sullen, lazy, petty and treats Cal like dirt. Cal really could do better. At least, he's aware of being exploited and jokes about it all the time.

“Ah, what it is to be young,” I smile and he bumps my shoulder playfully. “So, where are we going?”

“Devon Perkins is giving a _soiree_.”

I love how he puts on an upper class voice when he's mocking people.

“ _The_ Devon Perkins?”

“The very same.”

“No wonder, you wanted me to wear a tux. So, what is this ‘soiree’ in aid of?”

“You’ll see.”

We’ve just pulled up in front of the gates of a huge mansion, where a security guard checks our invitation and shines a light into the interior of our car. I hope I’ll never become rich enough to have to live like this, although the building we’re driving up to is quite stunning. A valet opens the door of our car and another guides the chauffeur to a parking space.

Inside, everything's a little bit too grand for my taste. There's another security check, then someone takes Cal’s coat and gives him a ticket. A ticket? At a private party? I feel like I probably committed some kind of offense by not wearing a coat in the first place.

“Shall we?” Cal puts his hand lightly on my elbow and guides me inside a large room, a hall really, filled with people in evening wear.

I bend towards him and say quietly, “I see he’s invited only his nearest and dearest.”

Cal laughs. “Yes, about a hundred of his closest mates.”

We start circulating, picking up champagne glasses from passing waiters and greeting various people. Cal knows just about everybody here, and exchanges a few words with some of them, introducing me sometimes, sometimes not. I can’t really work out if there's any method in that and don’t care much either. Some people I recognize from events Cal and I attended before and they recognize me, much to my surprise. The room is so big and so full of people that we only moved about a dozen feet so far.

He introduces me to Devon Perkins himself, a man in his late fifties with a booming voice. He greets me briefly and then promptly ignores me, probably recognizing me for what I am, the hired help, or hired _something_ anyway. I smile politely, while I follow the conversation and wonder why Cal always knows such bores. Brian would tell me that it's just business. Ah well, in that case, fuck business. Or not, in Perkins’ case. Yuk, the very thought makes me squirm.

“I say,” Cal says after a while, putting on a British accent so strong, it sounds fake even from him, a sure sign that he can’t stand his host. “Would you mind terribly if I took another look at your collection, old chap?”

“You can, of course, but you won’t see the main attraction.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I will eagerly await _that_ , but the rest of the collection?”

I've no idea what they're talking about. Perkins seems to be rather flattered by the request and calls over one of the ushers at once to show us the way. With Cal’s hand on my elbow again, we follow the guy up to the next floor, where a security guard is standing outside a double door. Inside there's yet another security guard and then I am looking at the most impressive private art collection I've ever seen. I have trouble not to start hyperventilating.

It has obviously been put together with no rhyme or reason. There are different styles and sizes from all different periods, paintings and drawings, and some sculptures, too. The only thing they all have in common is that every single piece is an original and incredibly expensive. Most of them are behind glass. Cal and I spend over an hour looking at everything. He's seen it all before, but doesn’t mind doing it again. He always enjoys talking about art. That's the main reason he's booking me nowadays, that I can hold my own with his friends and acquaintances, who are all as mad about art as he is.

Finally, we go back to the main rooms and I find myself talking incessantly about what I just saw. Cal really is one of the most interesting men I've ever come across and can provide interesting tidbits of information. When we reach the other guests, my inane chatter, as well as my almost feverish elation, come to an abrupt halt. There, over by the fireplace, talking to a man I know I should recognize, but can't quite place right now, is Brian, looking impeccable and stunning in his tuxedo.

“Justin?” Cal asks with some concern in his voice. Then, when I don't answer, he follows my gaze. “Frank Hartcourt, or the other guy?”

“Brian Kinney,” I say automatically.

“The advertising guy? You know him?”

“Yeah.”

Cal takes a few steps to stand in front of me, blocking my view. “If you don’t want him to know how you feel, you should stop staring. Is this making you uncomfortable? Would you like to leave?”

I look up at him gratefully and smile. “It’s not a problem.”

No, I certainly don't want to leave. Definitely not now, not with Brian here. I want to look at him all evening, drinking in his beauty and grace. At the same time, it breaks my heart to think that he's here, but won't seek me out, like he'd do if we were still together. Even before he admitted to a relationship, he always sought me out in a room full of people, often greeting me with a kiss. Now, I'm just one of a hundred guests that he might choose to talk to or not.

Cal passes me another drink and we continue our conversation about art, interspersed with being greeted by one or two people and, at least on my part, constant glances towards the fireplace. I wonder what he'll do when he spots me. Maybe I should go over there to say hello? But he's most likely here to drum up some business, so it's better not to disturb him. Then I see him excuse himself from Hartcourt, who, I now remember, is the owner of Hartcourt Electricals and another great supporter of the arts. In fact, if memory serves me right, he owns several galleries.

When Brian comes towards us with purpose and his eyes trained on me without surprise or hesitation, I realize that he not only knows that I'm here, he's also been aware of my exact position in the room the whole time.

“Friend or foe?” Cal mutters under his breath.

“Friend... I hope.”

He chuckles. “You don’t know?”

“It’s hard to tell at the best of times, believe me.”

Cal chuckles again and then Brian reaches us.

“Justin,” he says with a smile. “Fancy meeting you again. First I don’t see you for years, then twice in one month.”

Cal mumbles something about buses and when we both look at him questioningly, he follows it up with: “Trials and tribulations of the public transport system back home.” Yeah, that makes it so much clearer, but at least it gives me an opportunity to introduce them. “Do you two know each other? Cal, this is Brian Kinney. Brian, this is Callum Leland.” I'm at a bit of a loss how to explain what either one of them is to me, so I leave that part out. Neither of them seems to mind, or notice.

They shake hands and Brian chats to Cal about his business, dropping subtle hints about some ideas he might have to improve sales. He's amazing. I've never seen him in full business mode before, except for that one time at Vanguard when I was so nervous that I dropped the boards. He's talking so aimlessly and effortlessly that it's all too easy to miss the understated sales pitch unless you’re looking for it. I smile as I watch him work his charm on Cal, until I remember that I really no longer have any reason to be proud of him because we're no longer together. He doesn’t stop until he finds an opportunity to give Cal his card.

Then he smiles at me for a moment, before turning back to Cal. “Would you mind if I borrowed Justin for a moment?”

Cal shakes his head. “Not my call to make, Brian.”

I thank him inwardly for not treating me like his property and Brian seems pleased, too.

“You got a minute?” he asks me, his tone slightly more formal than it used to be, but still with that unmistakable smirk that tells me he's up to something. “I'd like to introduce you to someone. You, too, Cal, if you like.”

Cal decides to excuse himself and then I'm walking next to Brian across the room. I'm hoping that whatever he's planning will be as amusing as he seems to expect it to be, because sometimes his jokes are only funny to him. Especially, when they're designed to make a point. Hopefully, it won’t be me he's making a point to. It's rather painful for me to realize that I no longer trust him to look out for me first and foremost. But then again, why should he?

When I notice he's steering me towards Frank Hartcourt, my mind starts racing. Why does he want to introduce me to him? I've seen the man a couple of times before at functions, but have never been formally introduced. If he's in electricals, maybe this has something to do with Craig? But then again, Craig wouldn't do business with a man who's as vocal about gay rights as Hartcourt is and Hartcourt’s business is too big for him to have ever heard of anybody called Taylor from Pittsburgh.  

“Hartcourt,” Brian calls his attention away from the painting over the fireplace, which is incredibly generic and probably very expensive and looks like one of Perkins’ kids has splattered paint over it. It really has no soul at all. When the man turns around to us, Brian smiles at me. “May I introduce you two? This is Frank Hartcourt, an old business partner of mine. And this is...” He takes two beats as a dramatic pause and smirks in anticipation. “...Justin Taylor.”

Hartcourt does a double take at me, then looks at Brian, who is openly grinning now. “ _The_ Justin Taylor?”

“The one and only.”

If this is a joke, it's probably on me, because I have no clue what's going on. There's only one thing that registers in my mind: Brian has been talking about me! Instead of pretending I never existed, he's been talking about me to people who are complete strangers to me. Even if he said what an asshole I am, it still means that he's thinking about me, right?

“I must admit,” Hartcourt says now, “I thought you were a figment of Kinney’s imagination. For years now, he’s been telling me that you're the greatest artist ever lived and yet nobody else's ever heard of you. If I hadn’t seen your paintings at Kinney’s office, I'd have thought he’d made you up as a very elaborate joke. And yet here you are. In the flesh.”

We shake hands and he starts talking about how much he covets the two paintings I gave Brian before I left Pittsburgh. I know that one of them hangs in the lobby at Kinnetik and the other one in the conference room. Brian stands next to us with that happy smile that he has when something's gone exactly how he planned it. He has certainly managed to surprise both of us.

I smile at him, berating myself in my head that I was worried about what he was up to. “So, Brian talks about me?” I can’t resist asking.

“Only at every gallery opening and whenever I buy a new painting. It’s always: this is very nice, but nothing compared to a Justin Taylor original. Of course, he won’t sell me the two he’s got. Do you have any more works? Do you still paint? Exhibit?”

“I paint still,” I hedge. “But I don’t exhibit.”

Of course, I don’t exhibit. How can I, when I can never find anyone willing to simply look at my work? Not that I've even attempted to get anyone to do that for over three years now. What would be the point? No one's interested.

“Do you have any works finished? A portfolio?”

“I have about fifty finished pieces. No portfolio, sorry.”

I keep my eyes on Hartcourt, because I can feel Brian’s gaze burn into me. And my pleasure at the idea that Brian's been praising my work has long since evaporated into abject embarrassment at having to admit my failure to him.

“I would be very interested to see some of your material. I actually own three galleries. If you give me your card, I’ll send someone round to have a look.”

“Well, they weren’t very interested three years ago.”

Brian clears his throat, trying to draw my attention, but I refuse to look at him. I know in his mind he's cursing me for making a hash of this opportunity he's created for me. I'm well aware that I'm behaving like a spoiled brat, but I can’t help it. Becoming well-known isn't my ambition anymore. I really no longer have a portfolio made up and I don’t have a card to give to Hartcourt either, which embarrasses me no end.

Hartcourt doesn’t give up easily. “Which gallery did you contact?”

“The one in SoHo.”

“Ah, well, that one's been under new management for over a year now. So, do you have a card?”

“Not on me, sorry.”

Brian passes me one of his, together with a pen. “Write your number on the back.”

I take it and write my cell number on the back of it, before handing it to Hartcourt. It seems pointless to me, because nothing will come of it. Maybe it’s just a ploy for Brian to get my new number, because after I changed it three years ago, I've been very careful not to let anybody in Pittsburgh get hold of it. But I decide that it isn’t Brian’s style to be so underhanded. He would just come out and ask me. Or would he?

Hartcourt takes the card with thanks and surprises me by slipping it carefully into his wallet, instead of just sticking it into one of his pockets. “So, do you still sell your work?”

 _Of course. People are lining up round the block for them._ “Sometimes.” I smile at him. He seems genuinely interested and there's no reason to be impolite.

“That’s good. Kinney won’t tell me how much he’s paid for his paintings, but I’m sure we could come to an arrangement.”

“I’m sure,” I say absent-mindedly, looking at Brian now. His look is a clear warning not to mess this up. Okay, so I won’t tell Hartcourt that I gave him the pieces for free.

“I'll own a Taylor original yet,” he says to Brian.

Brian grins. “If you can afford it.” Jeez, what _has_ he been telling people?

“You’re underestimating my tenacity.”

Just then, there's the sound of clinking glass and all eyes turn to our host, who's on some kind of raised platform, ready to make a speech. The room falls quiet. I excuse myself almost noiselessly and walk back over to Cal. After all, he's paid for my company and it's only right that I’m with him when the main attraction of the evening is revealed.

Perkins makes a long-winded speech about acquiring his newest painting. It turns out to be an original Degas and I cringe when he makes the name rhyme with Vegas. Some people really should stay clear of art. I'm sure I'm every bit as excited at the news as Cal expected me to be. His grin is a dead giveaway. Everybody files into the adjacent room, but Cal and I hang back a little because I’m not really important enough to be at the front of the crowd and Cal wants to see it with me. We can wait. None of these people has an attention span of more than a few minutes anyway. Brian is nowhere to be seen. Probably off fucking some waiter.

“So, did Mr. Kinney turn out to be friend or foe in the end?” Cal asks lightly.

“Definitely friendly today.” I tell him all about my encounter with Frank Hartcourt, who I know is an acquaintance of Cal’s, if not a friend even.

“You paint?” he asks in surprise. “You never said you painted. You said you studied art history.”

I shrug. “Long story.”

“So, tell me,” he says, a little exasperated, “how come you’re almost passing out when you see Perkins’ collection, but when someone shows an interest in exhibiting _your_ art, you shrug it off?”

I shrug again, then, realizing what I'm doing, I sigh. “Nobody's interested.”

“Well, Frank's interested. I’m interested. Can I see it?”

“What for?”

He glares at me.

“Okay, next time we go somewhere, pick me up from home and you can look at it.”

“You work from home?”

“My roommate and I have a studio in the loft.”

“Well, that’s another interesting bit I never knew about,” he grumbles and then, after a pause, he adds, “And I wouldn’t be so quick to write off Frank either, if I were you.”

It's the first ever discordant note between us and he seems genuinely upset. I'm wondering if maybe after more than two years of knowing him, he hasn’t earned the right to be more than my client. Maybe I should just give him my cellphone number, so he can take me places without having to fork out hundreds of dollars for the privilege. But I really can’t afford that and as long as he's a client, he can't be my friend. That's a line I will not blur.

When there's a lull, we move forward to look at the painting. It's one of Degas’ working women, not one of the dancers and, of course, it's under glass, but still, it’s a Degas! Just being near it is a dream come true. Cal and I chat about it for a while and then even he moves away. I seem to be the only one truly enraptured. A lone security guard and I are the only occupants in the room.

Then Brian saunters in and comes to stand next to me.

“That it?” he asks and I'm assaulted by a brief instance of déjà vu, though I can’t quite place the moment. I nod, but suddenly the painting isn't half as interesting as it was just a moment ago. Nothing ever is when Brian's around.

“Can’t see the point of buying something you have to keep locked away,” he says with a shrug. “How much longer are you gonna be?”

“In here or at the ‘soiree’?”

“Both.”

“In here, I don’t know. At the party,” I check my watch, “another hour.”

“I’m at the Four Seasons again. Room 345. I’ll wait for you until one. Then I’m off clubbing.”

I turn my head to look at him. Did he just say what I think he said? Again? But he's still studying the painting and then just turns and strolls away. I watch his back and even with his ass covered by his jacket, he's a beautiful sight. Nobody carries off wearing a tuxedo quite like Brian does. Everything about him is the embodiment of grace.

I want to just follow him out, go to his hotel and fuck all night. Who cares about clients and art anyway? But there's also the fact that he just threw an offer at me like he would at any other trick, in that take-it-or-leave-it tone that conveys effortlessly that he doesn’t care either way. And that hurts like hell.

 

******

 

Well, well, well, my evening just got a lot more interesting. The sight of Justin walking into the room for the second time within a month brings a smile to my lips – until I see how he's dressed. It's the first time I've seen him in a tuxedo since his prom. I thought I'd banished that memory from my mind, but I feel assailed by an image of blood on a pristine white shirt so vivid that I have to close my eyes for a moment or two until I can push it back into the furthest reaches, where it belongs.

Frank Hartcourt puts a hand on my arm.

“Are you alright, Kinney?”

I nod and grin at him. “Just anticipating.” I indicate slightly towards the entrance. “Do you know him?”

He smiles. “Well, the older one's Callum Leland. Of Leland & Son. He’s the son. The father's dead. I’ve seen him with the other guy a few times. Don’t know who he is. He’s not the regular boyfriend, though Leland would do a lot better with this one. Larry, the regular one, is totally unsuitable, a bit of an embarrassment really. Don’t know where he is tonight. He’s a complete idiot. Got nothing going for him except being hot as hell. You know how we old fags are with young guys.”

Oh yes, I know quite a bit about falling for unsuitable young men. I’m also getting used to seeing Justin walk in on the arm of some geezer. At least this one's better looking, as well as having more of an air of entitlement, about life in general and Justin in particular. Maybe Justin really is looking for a sugar daddy after all. I was joking about that the last time I saw him, but it would explain why he was so touchy on the subject.

“And the blond?”

Frank laughs. “Yeah, I thought he was the one you had your eye on. Don’t know his name. He turns up with Leland every so often when there's art around. Knows quite a bit about it, too. Nice enough guy. Well-spoken, polite. And damn hot.” He sighs that last one. ”Alas, he never leaves with anyone but Leland. Very decent of him, too. Nothing like Larry. If I were Leland, I would swap them in a heartbeat.”

So would I, sights of Larry unseen. Then I remember quite a few conversations Hartcourt and I had about art and artists and one artist in particular. Oh, I will so enjoy introducing them to each other.

Twenty minutes later, enjoyment is the last thing I'm feeling, as I watch Leland guide Justin out of the room. Three guesses what they're up to and I must say, pretty brazen of Leland to get an usher to show them a good place to fuck. Sure enough, when they get back over an hour later, Justin's a little flushed and does his talking nonstop thing. I have to turn away. Post-coital chatter, he does that sometimes. _Did_. Last time we met, he hardly said two words to me.

But I won’t miss my chance to show Frank Hartcourt that Justin Taylor really does exist. I don’t know why I keep talking about him to people. They see the paintings and ask questions and I feel proud – still. Why the hell do I still feel proud of his talent, of knowing him, of owning his paintings? I have no idea.

At least the conversation between him and Hartcourt answers one of my questions. It seems like he has given up on wanting to be a famous artist. He doesn’t exactly jump at Frank’s offer, whether it’s because he doesn’t want to get his hopes up or because he genuinely doesn’t care, I can’t tell. Luckily, Frank is undeterred. When Justin goes back to Leland, I ask Frank discreetly to let me have a look at that card.

“Don’t tell me you’ve known this guy for years and haven’t bedded him yet, Kinney. You must be slacking.”

I grin. “He’s worth a repeat, believe me.”

 

Justin's right on time. He must have taken a cab to the hotel straight from the party and he behaves exactly like he did last time, pushing me against a vertical surface – a wall this time – kissing me and tearing at my clothes. He takes my shirt off and kisses and bites a trail down my chest and stomach until he's on his knees and roughly pulls down my pants. And then I'm scrabbling about for purchase on the wall while I'm treated to a genuine Justin Taylor blowjob. My hands end up in his hair, not to guide him – because, fuck, he doesn’t need it – but to hold on to something while I shoot down his throat.

When I open my eyes, he's still on his knees, grinning up at me. He’s always so smug when he makes me come this fast.

“You’re still good at that.”

“Yeah, I had a good teacher,” he smiles and gets up to kiss me. He's calmer now, taking his time, doing a thorough job. For a while, I have no desire to do anything else. Just kissing him is enough, holding him, feeling his hands on me... his hard-on pressing against my thigh. Okay, now it’s no longer enough. I start undressing him and there are way too many buttons. When he’s finally naked and I've freed myself from the pants still tangled around my ankles, I walk us over to the couch for round two.

By round three we're in bed and afterwards we lie on our backs, staring up at the ceiling, trying to slow our heart rates and our breathing. 

“So, what happened to the Brit?” I ask. I wasn’t going to, but it's out before I can stop it or even think about it properly. And don’t I sound like the jealous ex.

“He went home.”

“Well, he certainly suits you better than Forrester. Are you lining him up to be your next sugar daddy?” I wish I could keep my mouth shut because if I piss him off, he'll just leave. And those hundred questions I wanted to ask him last time and didn’t? Yeah, over the last three and a half weeks, I've been wishing I had. And I thought of a hundred more, too.

“He’s not my sugar daddy.”

“Another ‘friend’ of yours?”

“Not quite.”

There's a long pause and I'm thinking that I should just forget about the talking, because he obviously doesn’t want to. He hasn’t asked a single question, about me or the gang back in Pittsburgh, not even about Debbie. But then he continues and I somehow wish he hadn’t. Or that I hadn’t asked. I, of all people, should know better than to try and talk. There's a reason I usually avoid it. I should stick with what works.

“I'm an escort, Brian.” He says it really quietly, as if he’s ashamed of it and maybe he should be, because in my world, escorts are hustlers, only better paid. There may be some escorts out in breederland who aren’t prostitutes, but amongst gays, yeah, they pretty much all hustle. And suddenly things make so much sense that I'm wondering how I could possibly have missed the signs.

“You’re an escort.” I'm looking at him now and the little shit looks straight back at me. At least, that hasn’t changed. Justin is still the bravest guy I’ve ever met and he practically thrives on adversity. No slinking away in embarrassment for him. No hiding. Just a silent challenge and I’m so angry with him that I can’t help myself. “Well, don’t expect any payment from me.”

“Don’t worry, your account's still in credit.”

“Whatever happened to waiting tables?”

“Waiting tables doesn’t pay a hundred dollars an hour.”

“A hundred dollars? That’s pretty impressive and what would I get for that?”

“My undivided attention. Genuinely faked interest in you. Witty conversation. Dinner and drinks that you pay for. Free advice if you want to talk about your problems. And a kiss on the cheek at the end of the night.”

“For a hundred bucks an hour I'd want a fuck thrown in.”

“Most guys do. Most of my... colleagues agree, though they charge extra for that. I don’t.”

“Don’t charge or don’t fuck?”

“Don’t charge if I fuck. And fuck only if I feel like it. Mostly, I don’t.”

“And Forrester?”

“He was a client. I liked him. He was nicer than most.”

There's a pause, while I'm trying desperately to get my head around what he's telling me. Justin has always done what he thinks necessary to achieve his goals. He let the Sap blow him, for God’s sake! You have to be pretty determined to do that. Although somehow, Justin always manages to come out of these situations with his dignity intact. His thinking may be screwed up, but there are lines he will not cross under any circumstances, though I still don’t know what that line was with his go-go-boy career. The Sap must have royally pissed him off.

“Justin, you told me that you live rent-free. Why would you need money so desperately that waiting tables won’t do?”

I know I hit a nerve because he's getting angry. “And _you're_ so much better? Fuck you, Brian. You fuck your clients to get accounts. Just because there are millions of dollars involved, doesn’t make it any different. It’s just a matter of degree.” 

“I haven’t fucked anyone for an account since I started Kinnetik.” Why do I feel ashamed about my past all of a sudden? It never bothered me before, but now I feel the need to defend myself. “And even before, I only fucked the ones that were hot.” _Marvin Telson anyone?_

“Yeah, isn’t it strange how you suddenly fancy someone when they dangle a million dollar account in front of you? Improves their appearance no end. I just said I don’t fuck my clients. If I do, it’s because they're like Cal. I like them. We fuck and then it’s bye-bye. No repeats, not even for just dinner. A fuck is always the end. You taught me well.”

And he’s off. Off on his rant. Off of the bed. Off to get dressed and leave. I get up as well and watch him put on his clothes. I should apologize. I should stop him. I don’t want him to go. I want to hear what he’s been up to in the last three years. Where he's living. What he's doing when he isn't having all expenses paid evenings with rich old fags. Why he's no longer striving to be the greatest artist to come out of Pittsburgh since Warhol. I want to know everything, but no words come. I won’t beg. Not ever again. Been there, done that. And he still left. Just like he is now.

At the door, he turns around again. “I’m not a whore, Brian.” And then there's just a gentle thud. No slamming doors for him. Justin and his fucking manners.

“I never said you were,” I say quietly when I’m alone and then I’m just standing there, stark naked, wondering what has happened to us, that we can fuck for hours, yet can no longer have a civil conversation. What happened to: ‘Justin, why don’t you want to show your paintings anymore?’ ‘Justin, where do you actually live nowadays?’ ‘Justin, do you want to meet for coffee tomorrow?’

No, I have to go and bait him on his job and he has to retaliate by calling me a whore. Well, I’ve always known I’m a slut. Never bothered me much. Being a slut just means I get to fuck lots of guys, how's that a bad thing? But he's also right about the accounts. When I was busting my ass to make partner, anything was acceptable as long as it got the job done. Okay, so I blew off Telson that time. He pissed me off by talking to his wife while I was naked in his room. I imagined my dad doing that to my mom (obviously in his case it would have been naked pussy) and after that, it was pretty much all over. But there were others that I fucked when maybe I wouldn’t have done if I'd just met them somewhere else. It always gave me an edge. Nothing wrong with that.

It’s not even that I don’t like hustlers. You do what you have to do. There was never anything wrong with Hunter, other than being a complete brat at the time, and I’m sure every other hustler has similar reasons for what they do. But it’s not for Justin. He’s better than that and he shouldn’t have a reason for it. He should have known that he could come to me if he was in trouble. And that is what bugs me. That he didn’t come to me. That he felt he couldn’t come to me. That I had no idea. And I know that if he says he’s not hustling, then he’s not hustling. Justin only ever lies by omission.

 

******

 

_I was rushed off my feet during my evening shift at Leone’s. We were always busy and especially on Friday nights. On top of that, Paul had double-booked a table and had seated this couple in my section who'd been waiting for forty minutes for a table they'd booked well in advance. It was their wedding anniversary and they were understandably annoyed about it. I'd been told to give them special attention, which in turn pissed off every other customer in my section. There'd be no tips for me tonight._

_I was relying on my Friday evening shifts. I was already behind with my rent for that poky room that I rented in Kerry’s apartment. She might have been a friend of Daphne’s, but she was nothing like her._

_She was uptight to a degree that she asked me to label all my food in the fridge and keep my bathroom paraphernalia in a small basket under the sink, which was laughable because I had more stuff than she had. But at least she was quiet and studious, which unfortunately also meant that she hated me making a noise, any noise. Painting was out of the question. But then again, I never got round to that anyway, because I was working all the fucking time. And still I was late with the rent almost every month._

_The only thing Kerry had going for her was that she was in no way homophobic. But that didn’t mean that I could bring anybody home. Brian had flat out refused to stay at her place and booked us into a hotel when he came to visit. Of course, that was no longer a problem, hadn't been a problem for over a year now. And other guys? I didn't like bringing tricks to my place at the best of times. I just tricked at the clubs, when I had the time and the money to go. And recently I'd acquired a fuck buddy, Tom, one of the other waiters. It was working out reasonably well and he showed no signs of becoming too attached so far._

_My newest problem was Greg, Kerry’s boyfriend. He wanted to move in, she wanted him to move in and that meant that I had to move out. The easiest solution would be to swap living quarters with Greg. He was living with some woman in a huge house over in SoHo and he wanted me to have a look tomorrow. The only problem was that the woman needed care. She was agoraphobic and needed someone to run errands for her and accompany her to places she couldn’t avoid going to. I wasn’t sure if I could do that 24/7. She was older and I didn’t want to be tied to some old woman. Greg said it was hardly any work and it would mean a reduction in rent. And, of course, she'd have to like me first of all._

_I was just heading back to get Mr. Double-booking some extra butter for his bread when this guy in Tom’s section flagged me down. Usually, I was very good at not seeing the requests of the guests in other people’s sections, but Tom wasn’t feeling too good today and was very slow and it wouldn’t hurt to help him out. I could just take the extra order and pass it on to him._

_“What can I do for you, sir?” I asked, turning to a different page on my pad._

_“I have a proposition for you.”_

_I looked up. He was in his late thirties, not bad looking with dark hair and a goatee and I was almost sure he was here with another man, who was nowhere to be seen at the moment. He laughed a little._

_“Don’t worry I’m not making a pass at you…” He peered at my nametag. “...Justin. My boyfriend would fry me alive.”_

_I raised my eyebrows as a question, hoping he'd just get on with it because I really didn't have time for this. He pulled out a card from his top pocket and handed it to me. ‘Cinderella – Escort Agency’. Great, that was all I needed, someone who wanted me to wiggle my ass at people for money. Been there, done that. Didn’t work out so well._

_“It’s not what you think,” he said. “I’ve been watching you deal with that pompous ass over there. You’re great. He and his wife love you already and neither has any idea you’re gay.”_

_I took a furtive look around. If anybody heard him talk like that about another guest, I could get into trouble. Much as I hated it, I needed this job. I placed the card back on the table. “Thank you, sir. If there's nothing else, please excuse me.”_

_He picked the card back up and held it out to me again. I ignored it and walked away._

_Half an hour later, I was out back during my break, having a smoke when the door opened and Paul pushed Mr. Goatee through. “He wants a word with you,” he said and shut the door. Great, now my break was ruined. I knew Paul thought we would be fucking out here. Homophobic prick. It was way too cold for that anyway._

_“I said no,” I said, taking another drag, wishing I had brought my coat out with me._

_“Actually, you said ‘thank you’. But I assume you meant, ‘no, thank you’. My name's Philip Cartrell.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it. It was a reflex, a leftover from my childhood when my mother had impressed manners on me, which I'd largely learned to ignore by now._

_“I know you don’t want to listen to me, but if I could have just a minute of your time.”_

_I looked at my watch. “My break is over in three minutes and Leone's a stickler for punctuality.”_

_“Okay. I’ll be quick. I run an up-market escort agency for gay customers. Very up-market. The customers book your time for a few hours. You accompany them to wherever they want to go. You provide conversation and a smile and that's all.”_

_“What if where they want to go is their hotel room?”_

_He chuckled. “They inevitably always do, especially when they see you. It’s not a prostitution ring, Justin. I admit that some of the boys do make extra money that way, but I don’t get involved and I always tell the customer that this is strictly for social events. What you do in your own time is your business. Strictly don’t ask, don’t tell, as far as I'm concerned. Just don’t do it on agency time. And if you don’t do it at all, that’s just fine, too.”_

_“Still not interested,” I said, looking out into the yard._

_“A hundred dollars...” he paused a little, “...an hour.”_

_“What?”_

_“A hundred dollars an hour. You can make more in an evening than you make here in a week." He held out his card again and this time I took it._

_“Give me a call, if you’re interested, even if it's a few months down the line. You’d be a great asset. Just ask for Phil."  And then he left._

_I stood there, turning the card over and over in my hands. It was just too tempting. But what was the likelihood of him being honest about what was involved? I should just tear it up right now. But then I thought of all the working hours I could save. I'd have time to paint. And with all the money I might be able to rent a studio or even an apartment that could incorporate a studio._

_In the end, I carefully put the card into my wallet and went back to waiting tables._

_The next day I went to see Greg’s place and met Marissa._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you never heard it before, the expression Cal is referring to is: 
> 
> It’s like the buses, you hang around waiting for one for ages and then two come at once.


	3. Chapter 3

**PART THREE**

Giles Rigby is everything I hate about the art world. He's rude and arrogant and leaves the impression that he's doing me a great favor just by talking to me – a complete snob. He's also forty minutes late, which means that, depending on how long he will take, I'll have to rush to meet my newest client tonight, a guy called Kenneth Bryant, who's from out of town. Rigby’s apology is steeped in insincerity because, naturally, his time is so much more valuable than mine.

I have a good mind to just throw him out, but Marissa is here and she's been excited about his visit on my behalf ever since he called to arrange it yesterday. She would skin me alive if I told him to get lost. Maybe she’ll change her mind now, because he's extremely rude to her, barely giving her a glance when I introduce them. Ah well, let’s get this over with.

“I’m here because Mr. Hartcourt asked me to look at your paintings, Mr. Taylor,” he says for the second time, as I’m guiding him up to the loft. _Yes, I know, you don’t want to be here. You think it’s a waste of time. Believe me, I concur._

I lead him into our studio, which takes up the whole floor space of the loft. It's huge and the lighting is fantastic. It also has air conditioning and a darkened side room to store finished works. I can see that Rigby is finally somewhat impressed. It certainly made me want to move in double-quick when I saw it for the first time three years ago.

He goes over to some of the smaller works and looks at them. I just stay by the door with my arms folded and wait. For a few moments, he says nothing.

“These are... good,” he then offers tentatively. It's very amusing. He obviously hates them, but I'd bet any money that he doesn’t dare say so because his boss has told him he likes my work.

“Yes, they are,” I smirk. “They're also not mine. Mine are the large ones over there.”

I can see his shoulders sag in relief and he drops Marissa’s painting like it’s on fire. I won’t tell her that he didn’t like them. She says that she only paints to pass the time, but it would still hurt her feelings. I’ll just tell her exactly what he said: that they're good.

There are six of my large canvasses set out along the walls to cure the paint, partly hidden by a screen to keep them out of the direct sunlight. He looks at them for a long time with his back to me. “You’ve only exhibited two paintings so far?” His voice has changed from bored indifference to a suppressed excitement. Well, would you believe it? He likes them.

“Only one painting so far. At the Sidney Bloom gallery in Pittsburgh about five years ago. Unless you count some drawings and computer assisted works at various art shows at PIFA and the GLC.”

“Yeah, I know about the Bloom Gallery one. That went to a businessman in Scranton. And there're two on semi-public display at the Kinnetik offices in Pittsburgh.” He turns around. “So you’re saying the one in Toronto is a fake? It looks like one of yours.”

“I’m not aware of... Toronto, you said?”

“Yes, the Rene Dubois Gallery. There’s a painting on permanent display in the entrance hall. Makes quite a statement, too. Apparently, it belongs to the gallery’s manager and her partner. It’s not for sale. They said it had ‘sentimental value’.” His scrunched-up nose gives me an indication of his thoughts on that notion.

Lindsay's showing my painting in her gallery? Permanently? Wow. I feel strangely moved by that gesture, but I'd never let this guy know that, so I tuck away my smile. “No, it’s definitely one of mine. I didn’t know it was open to the public, is all. It was a private gift.”

“Well, it will soon become a very generous gift. Do you have any more stuff? Mr. Hartcourt was under the impression there’d be dozens of paintings.”

I move forward to open the storeroom. All our paintings in there are on runners, so that they can be pulled out for viewing. It's all very professional. It helps to have as much money as Marissa has, when you have an expensive, time-consuming and space-eating hobby like painting.

He looks at about twenty of them at random, taking his time, moving his head from side to side to get different viewing angles. Then he turns to look at me. “I need to send a photographer over to take pictures of all of them, since you don’t have a portfolio.” His look tells me that not having a portfolio puts me on par with small children displaying their finger paintings on the family fridge door. “Then I need to discuss them with Mr. Hartcourt, but it's pretty much a given that we'll be offering you a show on the basis of your existing work. We'll send you a contract and I would think the show would be in spring.”

“I'd have to get my lawyer to look over the contract first, of course,” I say coldly, and his eyes widen with consternation. If I didn’t have his boss in my court, I would have pretty much torpedoed all my chances with just that one remark. Too bad for him that I really don’t care anymore. Four years ago, I would have kissed his feet for this opportunity, today it’s no more than a diversion. This offer has come far too late to make any real difference.

“Mr. Taylor, I’m not sure if we understand each other. I'm offering you, an unknown artist, the opportunity to show some of your work at one of the most prestigious galleries in New York. It's really not in your power or your best interest to make any demands.”

“I might not be able to make any demands,” I say, while pushing the paintings back into place and shutting the door on the storing area, “But it's in my power, not to exhibit in the first place. I really don’t mind one way or the other. If you, or rather Mr. Hartcourt, want my work, you'll have to pay a decent percentage... as deemed appropriate by my lawyer.”

Rigby's seething by now, but maybe the reminder that his boss is very interested in my work, keeps him from exploding. “I'll have our photographer call to make an appointment, Mr. Taylor. Now I really must go. Good night.” He storms down the stairs and a moment later, I can hear the front door slam.

I look around at the open canvasses and feel like an ass. So many aspiring artists would give their eye teeth for what I've just been offered on a platter and I jeopardize the whole thing because I can’t stand the guy they’ve sent to negotiate? But I really don’t give a damn about becoming known any longer. There's no longer any point to it.

On the other hand, selling some paintings would, at the very least, generate some income and if I could support myself that way, by doing something I love, that would be a bonus. If my paintings sell, that is, and if they sell for more than a season. There are a lot of ‘ifs’ and eventually I'll need a reliable long-term solution. It would be unrealistic to assume that I can live in this house forever or that I can be an escort much longer, certainly not after I turn thirty, unless I start lying about my age. Wouldn’t that be ironic? That I'd have to pretend to be younger than my actual age, when I’ve always tried to convince people that I’m older than I look?

I smile at the thought that, all this time, Lindsay had my painting exhibited at her gallery without me even knowing. Then I turn off the light and go to have my shower. I have an appointment with a new client tonight.

 

I order a drink at the bar of the Four Seasons Hotel. It seems that this place is the only place to be nowadays, as virtually all my clients ask me to meet here. This guy's new to the agency. He's been vetted and has supplied the requisite references from existing customers, so I’m not worried about it. Plus, we're in a public place, at the bar of one of the up-market hotels in New York, what could possibly go wrong?

I've already taken a good look around to see if I can spot Brian. It seems that, recently, he always catches me out when I’m with a client and this is his usual stomping ground. But there's no sign of him and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed about that. I haven’t seen him for over six weeks now and I’m thinking that it was just a fluke that he was in New York on the two occasions when I did see him. Well, I did more than just see him. And now I have to take a few deep breaths and will down my arousal at the memory of what we did. It wouldn’t do to greet the new client with a hard-on. That would certainly create the wrong impression.

And just as I’m looking at my watch to check how late this guy is, my hard-on pops back up when he slips into the seat next to me. Brian, that is. Fuck. Now I have to tell him to leave because I’m waiting for a client. On the other hand, if I can persuade him to wait, my night just moved from mediocre to amazing. _If_ I can persuade him to wait. Because Brian Kinney waits for no one.

“Waiting for me?” he smirks and just raises one finger to make the bartender jump to attention and bring him a whisky. How does he do that? He didn’t even look in the guy’s direction.

“Actually, no. I’m waiting for...” And then it hits me. Kenneth Bryant? Kenny Bryant – Brian Kinney. “I _am_ waiting for you, aren’t I?”

He grins and nods. “I thought you would have worked it out by now. The name was rather obvious.”

“You went through the agency to book an evening with me? Why the hell would you do that? Or are you used to having to pay for it nowadays?” I'm irrationally annoyed at him. His jokes are so not funny sometimes. What is he doing? Rubbing my face in the fact that, in his opinion, I'm no more than a rent boy nowadays?

“Woah,” he says, still smiling and holding up both hands in a defensive gesture. “It was just a joke. But if you really hate having dinner with me that much...”

“How did you get Phil to cooperate? He must have vetted you.”

“He did. And I also had references from three other clients of the agency. And the extra bonus I paid him probably helped, too. To be fair, I told him we're old friends and that you'd see the funny side of it.”

I'm going to kill Phil for doing this to me. “So we're old friends now? Last time we were only acquaintances.”

“Huh?”

“When we met the first time. With Forrester. You said we were _acquainted_.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I believe my exact words were ‘we are well acquainted’ – as in ‘knowing someone inside out’? You should look it up in the dictionary. Are you sure you got 1500 on your SATs?”

I try to think back on the conversation and I have to admit that he's right, as usual. Damn him. Now I feel like an idiot.

He's watching me for a while, then he smiles. “Shall we start again?” He holds out his hand. “Hey, my name's Brian Kinney. I'm your client for tonight. What’s your name?” He rolls in his lips in a faux-shy and achingly familiar gesture.

I can’t help but smile at his antics. I shake his hand. “My name's Justin. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kinney. Is this your first visit to New York?”

And the game is on. Our relationship has always had a slightly competitive undercurrent. Who can fuck the most tricks in one night? Who can last longer without coming first? Who can pretend to be unaffected by our respective fuck-ups most effectively? Needless to say, Brian always won all the games. Tonight, it's a different one, a new one: who can make the other one break role first? This one I can win because I've been pretending one thing or another for longer than I care to remember.

He tells me he has some meetings in New York and I try not to get excited at the fact that he'll be here for another two days. Doesn’t mean that he wants to spend them with me, does it? He talks about Kinnetik with obvious pride and he should. The company has become incredibly successful over the last few years. I look him up online from time to time and each time he's more prominent and higher up in the Forbes Global 2000. Of course, I mainly drool over the picture of the CEO.

While he's talking about his company, I get the distinct impression that he's holding something back. I'm pondering whether this is part of the game – I’m the hired escort and he'll only say so much in front of someone like that – or if there's some problem with Kinnetik. Then one of the hotel staff comes and tells us that our table is ready.

Brian puts his hand on my elbow as we’re walking over to the restaurant. I'm so insanely proud to be with him, to be seen with him, it’s pathetic. I realize that this is something like a first date for us. Shame I can’t tease him about it, but that wouldn't be in character. He stops just short of pushing my chair in because there's no way Brian will ever treat me like the little woman.

When we’ve ordered our drinks, I can no longer contain myself. It's always so much fun to tease Brian, especially when he's in a good mood like now. “So, is there anyone special in your life, Mr. Kinney?” This is not a question I normally ask my clients – their spouse is the last thing clients want to talk about when they're with me – but he doesn’t know that.

Brian pulls in his lips and looks at me for a long time. At least, it feels like a long time and I’m beginning to wish fervently that I hadn’t asked. When he pulls out his wallet to take out a photograph, I know I'll have to get up and walk out – the game, the money and Phil be damned. He places the picture on the table and pushes it towards me. I can’t help but look, although I really don’t want to.

“His name's Gus. He's ten now.”

_Fuck you, Brian. Fuck you for scaring me like that. And fuck you for still being able to do that to me._

“Is he your son?” I croak out, keeping my eyes on the photo. Gus has grown tall and he looks very much like his father.

He nods and puts the photo away, while he tells me all about Gus. First, a little explanation about where he lives and with whom, to keep the game going. Then comes the real information, how he's doing at school, what he likes, hobbies, that he's bi-lingual, followed by information about the mothers. Melanie's become a very prominent gay rights lawyer and Lindsay runs the Rene Dubois Gallery, which I already know. They must be doing really well, because they've just moved into a larger house and both Gus and JR are attending private schools. I simply soak it all up.

“What about you?“ he asks during the first course of the meal.

“What about me?”

“Anyone special in your life?”

He's watching me closely and I know he won’t miss any tells in my face or my eyes. Not that there's anything _to_ tell. I have a female roommate twenty years my senior and three fuck buddies I fall back on when I don’t want to go out tricking. A fourth one I had to discard when he became too clingy. Other than that, I haven’t even attempted a relationship.

“There may be, but let’s talk about you, Mr. Kinney.” I smile that bright smile that usually works. Let’s face it, nobody wants to talk about the hired escort anyway. The clients are always all too happy to talk about themselves. But not Brian.

“Actually, since I’m paying for your time, don’t you think I should decide where the conversation's going?”

“No, I don’t.” I can feel my anger over his little ploy to get me here resurfacing. He couldn’t just call and ask me? “Paying for my time entitles you to my company and my undivided attention. Nothing else. How much I want to share of myself, remains my decision.”

“Is that a general rule or a rule that applies only to me?” I must have hit a nerve, too, because he's snapping at me now. It's a general rule, but if he was an ordinary client, I would have put it more diplomatically.

“I told you that everything that happens with clients is my decision. That goes for giving out information as much as it does for fucking.” There's a clutter of dropped silverware from the next table, but I don’t really care if they can hear us. I won't let him call me a whore again.

“So I've spent hundreds of dollars for you to talk to me and I’m still only getting the company line?”

“If you go through the company, then the company line is what you get. The question is really: why did you bother? Why _did_ you spend hundreds of dollars to do this, after you spent thousands to get rid of me in the first place?” I think we have everybody’s attention by now, at least in the immediate vicinity.

Of course, Brian doesn’t give a shit about that. “What the fuck are you talking about, Justin?”

That is it! I’ve had enough. I stand up and throw down my napkin, which lands in my soup, splashing it over the pristine table cloth. “Thirty thousand dollars, Brian. That’s what you spent to never have to have anything to do with me again. Well, you know what? Let’s stick with that. I’ll tell Phil to blacklist you. And you stay the hell away from me.”

And then I try my hardest to ignore the stares and hold my head high, while I walk out of the hotel.

 

******

 

The guy seems finally convinced. I’m sure the check I’m waving under his nose has nothing to do with his sudden willingness to bend the rules a bit. I did bring three, instead of the required two, references from existing members of his little club and I even showed him an old photograph of Justin and me. However much of a pain in the ass it is to jump through his hoops, it's also reassuring that he obviously takes his responsibilities to his employees very seriously.

“Mr. Kinney, you do understand that the contract is for four hours of Justin’s _time_. What services are included is at his discretion, completely and I don’t allow any coercion. And I have to tell you that Justin is, shall we say, very selective.”

So Justin told the truth. He doesn’t fuck unless he feels like it and nobody's putting pressure on him to do otherwise. That's also reassuring.

“Why is it called ‘Cinderella’?”

“Because the boys will go to the ball, but at midnight it’s all over.”

“That’s clever. You need better marketing.”

“I assure you, Mr. Kinney, we’re doing all right.”

Yeah, I bet. Putting rich old fags in touch with young beautiful ones? Really not much marketing required.

 

I have meetings for much of the next day, but when I’m in the shower, getting ready for my evening, I wonder if he's worked out yet that it’s me he’s meeting. I’m sure he has and I hope he'll be amused because sometimes Justin can be really uptight about things that amuse me and recently he hasn’t been the most relaxed around me.

Sure enough, he's at the bar and he looks stunning, as he does every time I see him. He looks almost frustrated when I slip into the seat next to him. Apparently, he never worked it out. That surprises me. He must have been preoccupied or disinterested, and he's also angry for some unfathomable reason. Really, he should lighten up a bit. I wonder if he'll have a fight with that Cartrell guy over this and I almost hope so. Maybe he'll quit. Something about Justin working as an escort doesn’t sit right with me. I wouldn’t be sorry if he packed in this job.

Finally, I manage to make him smile and he gives in suddenly. He either needs the money very desperately or he's seen the upside of it – a plush dinner with me. Time was, when the very thought would have sent him hyperventilating. But that was then and this is now. Nowadays, all he's willing to do with me is fuck. He doesn’t even realize that this is our first real date.

When he asks me about ‘someone special’ in my life – God, how I loathe that expression – I can’t help messing with him a bit. He looks genuinely upset before he realizes that I'm showing him a picture of Gus. What does that mean? Does he really think I'd ever take up with someone else? That I'd even contemplate it? And what does it mean that the idea upsets him? But then I shut down that train of thought. So what, if he still has some residual feelings for me? I assume he wouldn’t let me fuck him at every opportunity if he didn’t have those. 

It's time to turn the table and find out what's going on in his life. That’s what this is all about after all. I want to know if he’s all right now, if he's settled, happy even. This is the only way I can do that. Whenever he comes to my room, we just end up fucking and then he’s gone again. Now that he's sitting down to dinner with me, he'll have to talk.

Or not.

He still thinks I consider him a whore. I wonder why he’s so touchy on that subject. And I'm still wondering about that, when he tells me that I paid to get him out of my life. Huh?

“What the fuck are you talking about, Justin?”

Thirty thousand dollars? What thirty thousand dollars? Oh, _that_ thirty thousand dollars. I can explain that. Or I can at least explain that I didn’t do it for the reasons he thinks I did. But I don’t get a chance because by the time my brain has caught up with the subject of the conversation and has formulated a placating response, Justin's stormed out. And he's made it very clear that he never wants to see me again.

So the money is what's really bugging him. After all this time, he really should have got over it. But Justin has always had his own ideas about money. His career as a go-go dancer was testament to that. He'd rather make a fool of himself than let me help. I’ve always admired him for that – grudgingly, because my admiration doesn’t stop me from worrying. Of course, he’s a grown man now, who can look after himself. Still, working as an escort? People make assumptions. Hell, _I_ made assumptions when I found out. It’s not safe, is all I’m saying.

So, now what? I can’t just leave things as they are. There's something in me that won’t let me rest until I'm certain that Justin is okay. It must be a leftover from the days when he was my protégé. It's time to get out the big guns. And talking about big guns... I’m horny as hell. Justin always does that to me.

The waiter comes to ask if everything's all right. _Of course. I always have dinner with guys who queen out at the table._ I just ask him to cancel the rest of the order and he starts stacking the plates.

“What time do you get off?” I ask on a whim.

He looks up in surprise, then he smiles. And suddenly, he seems awfully young. “In an hour.”

“You have my room number?”

“Yes, sir.” And he takes the plates away. Well, that’s one problem solved at least.

 

******

 

_When I dropped the large pile of panel boards onto the dinner table, Michael eyed them in surprise._

_“Did you bring them with you on the plane?”_

_“Nah, I drove in. One of my roommate’s friends was going to Altoona, so I hitched a ride.”_

_He was looking through the panels now, spreading them out on the table and sorting them into the right order. There were a lot of them. I was supposed to do them bit by bit and send them off in small batches, but my workload meant that I could only work in spurts. The work would pile up and then I'd finish them all in one go on my rare days off. And then they'd be too bulky to send by mail and too expensive to fed-ex._

_“When did you get in? I didn’t expect you till tomorrow.”_

_“Yeah, you’re not the only one.”_

_He looked up, ever the sharp one on this particular subject. “You saw Brian?”_

_“Yeah, I saw him.” I looked around the living room with studied indifference. I always wondered how it was possible for two guys to have a house that looked more domestic than my own mother’s. It must be Debbie’s influence, only it wasn't quite as tacky._ _That must be Ben’s influence. That thought made me wonder idly where Ben was tonight._

_“Did you not speak to him?” Why did Michael always think that it was his business what Brian and I did or didn't do? Oh yeah, that was probably because both of us always told him that business in great detail. Brian because he was his best friend and I just usually needed to vent with someone. Michael was good for that, because he was always defending Brian. I had worked out a long time ago that it was no use complaining to people who already agreed with me. That just resulted in a general Brian trashing. Very satisfying, when I was still angry and frustrated, but ultimately unproductive. No, Michael and Daphne were the best ones for a good rant. Only, Daphne was in California._

_“He was a bit busy,” I said with fake unconcern. He had been. Just as I pulled up outside the loft in my mother’s car, he was ushering this guy into the building. They looked in a real hurry to get out of their clothes._

_“He was tricking? Is there any reason he shouldn’t be, if he wasn’t expecting you?”_

_He was right, of course. Brian had insisted that there’d be no rules while I was in New York. He'd made it sound like that was for my benefit and I'd agreed readily enough. It would have been silly to do anything else. But now I was wondering if he'd said it so he could do whatever the hell he wanted._

_“I’m sure he would have dropped the guy in a heartbeat if he’d known you were there,” Michael said in a much softer voice._

_“It was the same guy as last time I was here.”_

_“Tall, dark hair, kinda buff?” Michael sounded totally unconcerned._

_I nodded._

_“That’s just Nick.”_

_Nick? Michael knew this guy’s_ name _? Which could only mean that Brian... Oh my God, this was so much worse than I'd thought when I was lying awake the whole night._

_“He’s his fuck buddy, Justin. Nothing more.”_

_I glared at him. Brian didn’t have fuck buddies. Brian had tricks. The only fuck buddy he ever had turned into a fiancé in the end._

_“Don’t do that,” he said a little heatedly. “You can’t expect him to sit at home and knit, while you’re off to conquer the world. That’s not Brian. He'll always trick. It doesn’t mean anything. You know what he's like. He's always been like that. You knew what you were taking on.”_

_Oh, I knew that all right! Because everybody was always telling me._

_“So did he!” It came out louder than intended._

_“What's that supposed to mean?”_

_“I knew what I let myself in for. But so did he. From day one, it was obvious what I really wanted. Just because I put up with his tricking, doesn’t mean that he didn’t know what I really wanted in the end. Just like I always knew that he didn’t really want me to go away when he pretended he did.”_

_“He was always honest with you.”_

_“Nobody's always honest. I put up with things because I was hoping that he'd give me more one day. He told me he'd never change and yet he always acted completely different. Whenever he sensed that I was really upset, he'd do something sweet and then I had hope again. I was as honest as he was. He knew. He always knew what I wanted.”_

_“You have to accept him the way he is.”_

_“Like you do, you mean? Tell me, Michael, when you were dreaming of Brian all those years, did you dream of him fucking you on regular basis and fucking everybody else in the tri-state area just the once? Or were you really dreaming of just him and you?”_

_Michael had the decency to look embarrassed. Granted, this was a subject that wasn't usually discussed. While Michael’s crush on Brian was common knowledge and discussed and joked about at length among his friends, neither he nor Brian acknowledged it to anyone. It was really a thing of the past now, but for once I wanted him to see that what he expected of me, had always expected of me, was more than he'd have done himself._

_“It’s a valid question, Michael,” said a voice from behind me._

_I turned around to see Ben standing at the bottom of the stairs, in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, and looking incredibly tired. Shit! I hadn’t known that he was even in the house and I certainly wouldn't have said anything about Michael and Brian anywhere he could hear me. Ben was one of the nicest guys I'd ever met, Brian’s disdain for his serious disposition notwithstanding. I never wanted to hurt Ben. I never really wanted to hurt Michael either. I was just angry and hurt and lashing out at the wrong target._

_Michael was silent for a long time and then, never taking his eyes off of Ben, he said quietly: “No, I always wanted him to myself." Wow, Michael really had grown up. He was no longer dodging the difficult issues. Ben smiled at him proudly._

_I decided that I’d rather postpone this until tomorrow because the situation was way too awkward now to get anything done._

_“Uhm, hi, Ben. I didn’t know you were here. Sorry to wake you. I think I’ll just go.”_

_“Hi, Justin,” Ben said with a smile. "How have you been?”_

_“Oh, you know, same old.”_

_He nodded and there was an awkward silence that made me take a couple of steps backwards towards the door, making my intentions clear. But Michael wasn’t finished._

_“I want to buy you out.” His voice was tight, but he looked determined._

_What? Ben shook his head at Michael, either to say ‘don’t do this’ or ‘don’t do this now’, but Michael had turned back to me already._

_“What?”_

_“I want to buy your share of Rage. This isn't working out. You're in New York. You’re always delivering the panels at the last minute. You're never here to make changes. We’re losing tons of time and money sending the panels backwards and forwards. I want to buy you out.”_

_“No way. Rage is mine, too. I’m not giving it to you for a couple of bucks.”_

_“I’ve talked to some people and the general opinion is that 25,000 dollars would be a fair price for your share.”_

_“You've already discussed this with other people? How about discussing it with your business partner first? Anyway, where the fuck would you be getting 25,000 dollars from? You have two mortgages and two kids. If anything, you have even less money than I... Oh my God.”_

_There was only one person who'd be willing to lend Michael that much money and who could easily afford it. It was bad enough that Michael felt I was no more than a hired illustrator, but I knew that Brian always had an ulterior motive for everything he did. If he was willing to fund this, then it had to mean that it would have an advantage for him as well, something he wanted._

_“No way,” I repeated. “I'm not ever going to sell my share.”  I stumbled towards the door and then Ben was there, seeing me out._

_“This is something_ for _Michael, Justin. Not_ against _you.”  He put his arm around my shoulders and squeezed for just a moment before letting me go. “It was good to see you. You should go and see Brian.”_

_I nodded, not in agreement, just as a way of saying goodbye, and walked to my mother’s car as if I was in a trance. It was a miracle I got home safe. Then I just sat in the car outside her condo for three hours._

_It only took nine months from the moment I stepped out of the loft, for my life to completely unravel. I was living with Kerry, whom I didn't particularly like, in an apartment regimented by her petty hang-ups. To add insult to injury, the rent was exorbitant and had forced me to spend what little I had left over from my LA adventures in a very short period of time. The idea of renting a studio space was laughably prohibitive._

_Pretty soon, money and lack of space weren’t the only factors preventing me from painting any longer. I was unable to get a decent job. I had no degree and who was to give me a reference? PIFA? Vangard? Brian was out of the question because of our personal involvement._

_So I got a job at Leone’s, waiting tables. It was an up-market restaurant at least, so the clientele didn’t hit on me all the time and the atmosphere was nice, if busy. But the up-market aspect didn’t translate into a decent paycheck and I worked practically all the time._

_And that personal involvement with Brian? Yeah, that was pretty much gone as well. From day one, he'd withdrawn from me. He had only visited twice, once after two months, then again after four. Unfortunately, I had to work one day out of the weekend on both occasions. I was the new guy. No one was cutting me any slack._

_This was only my second visit back to Pittsburgh. And while he spent time with me when we were in the same city, all other contact was painful. He never acknowledged any feelings between us, always telling me to enjoy myself, to make the most of it, to knock ‘em dead. He ignored me when I told him  that I loved him and missed him or sometimes I got a grunt of acknowledgement, or he'd come up with some sexual innuendo in return. One time, when I'd worked fifteen days straight and was exhausted and despondent and cried on the phone, he just said my name once in that voice of his, that made you ashamed of having feelings in the first place, never mind voicing them._

_I'd persevered so far because I knew that Brian had his own demons. He'd be convinced that I'd never come home, just like he'd been when I was in LA. Pushing me away was his own version of letting me go. I'd managed to hang on until now. But now he had a fuck buddy? A fuck buddy wasn’t like a trick. There would be talking involved, and a minimum of consideration and... and this was exactly how we'd started._

_To make matters worse, he was giving Michael money to get rid of me. So that I would disappear completely from his life, so that there'd be no reason for me to come back and no occasion for him to ever have to hear my name again. I knew that Michael was right. With me being in New York, it was difficult to work on the comic together. Every change to the panels was a major exercise. That was probably just it. I couldn’t imagine him wanting to buy me out because he was thinking Rage would make him rich one day._

_There'd been a slump after the marriage issue. It wasn’t what the readers wanted. So we fixed it after the next issue by having the evil politicians annul the marriage, Rage having to fight for gay rights and then for him and JT to decide that they didn't need to be married after all. Jeez, I wonder where that story line came from. So sales had been picking up again, but Michael wasn’t calculating like that. He was happy to share with me, happy that there actually was something to share. His reasons were just practical. Brian’s reasons, however... No, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of dancing to his tune. I would stick with Rage and do better on delivering on time._

_All I really wanted to do was come home. But how could I? How could I admit that I failed? That I wasn’t painting? That nobody would even look at my portfolio? That I hated New York? Brian had achieved everything he ever wanted and more. I would never be his equal partner if I wasn’t a success in my own right. I refused to be the little woman who could indulge in painting as a hobby because her husband was fabulously rich and I knew Brian wouldn't want that either. In fact, Brian didn't want me any longer, period. He was spending real American dollars to get rid of me. Maybe it was time to face reality and stop trying to force him into a relationship he no longer wanted. He'd obviously woken up from his temporary insanity._

_And if I was wrong, if he still wanted me, he'd come for me because Brian always got what he wanted._

_Six months later, after my panels had arrived late for the second time in a row and our publisher threatened to drop us, I agreed to the buy-out. We bumped the amount up to $30,000 and that was that._

_By then, I hadn’t had any contact with Brian for the whole six months._


	4. Chapter 4

 

**PART FOUR**

The room is filled to capacity, so I slip in to stand at the back against the wall with the other latecomers. The whole symposium is a serious investigation into gay culture, but this part of it right here is pure geek convention. Half the people in the audience are wearing Rage t-shirts. There's also an extraordinary number of women present. Women read gay comics? That’s news to me.

This is supposed to be a panel discussion about the difficulties of getting a homoerotic comic book published and distributed and, sure enough, Mitchell, the publishing guy, whom I remember only vaguely, talks at length about how difficult it was to persuade mainstream comic book shops to display and sell Rage. He speaks about the legal issues involved, with it being so x-rated in contents and even on the front covers. Apparently, there have been strategically placed extra large price stickers galore. Personally, I'd be fuming about that if I were a customer. It seems I’m not the only one and the real market is in mail orders.

I watch Michael nervously shuffling his notes, while Mitchell is speaking. He looks old. Has it really only been three and half years since I last saw him? He looks like he’s lost some weight, that he didn’t need to lose in the first place, his hair is starting to gray and he has darkish circles under his eyes. Maybe he’s been ill. He's doing that deep breathing thing that he does when he’s really nervous. Ben taught him that.

When he speaks, he comes over as reasonably confident and is actually quite entertaining. He goes into the history of the comic from the first idea as E-man at Babylon to the published edition. He mentions me several times by name, as the co-creator and as instrumental in its development. He is nothing if not honest about my participation. In fact, if anything, he slightly overstates my influence.

When the discussion is opened to the audience, the whole thing quickly deteriorates into fan worship. The questions are almost exclusively about the characters and it's as if these people think they're real. If given the choice, would Zephyr choose Ken Kirschner or Rage? Michael answers with a very definite ‘Ken’ on that one and when pressed, he says: “Ken is the love of his life. Rage is just a fantasy. Ken's real.” _Good for you, Michael_.

One woman asks if he thinks JT ever tops Rage and I crane my neck to get a look at her. She must be in her late forties and is in no way embarrassed to be asking this. Gay culture really is everywhere. Michael’s reaction makes me smile. He actually blushes and mumbles: “I really wouldn’t know what they do in private. I can categorically state it'll never happen in the comic.”

Michael's good at this. It doesn’t faze him that people take it all so seriously because he's done it all his life with other comic book characters. I remember well how upset he was when they killed off Captain Astro. Personally, I feel a little bemused and uncomfortable at first, but after a while, I realize how amazing it is that we’ve created something that means so much to so many people. It's really very flattering.

Somebody asks if it's true that there’s a real-life Rage out there. Michael smiles: “Yes, there is. Actually, I brought him with me. He's over there. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Brian Kinney aka Rage.” He points to the side of the stage and there's Brian, dressed all in black, in jeans and a plain t-shirt, with his arms folded and glaring at the audience. He looks every bit like Rage and how the hell did I miss him standing there?

The room erupts into applause and cheers and it seems that everybody wants to take his picture. Somebody asks how he feels about being the hero of a comic book and he just raises his eyebrow mockingly and keeps glaring. It may be rude, but it suits Rage just fine.

“Brian’s not here to answer any questions,” Michael explains, when everything's calmed down a bit. There are some more questions about how they know each other, but Michael's cagey now. He knows as well as I do, that Brian wouldn’t thank him for going into too much detail about his private life. Then, after about ten minutes, Brian takes the steps up to the stage and whispers something in Michael’s ear. Michael looks at him and they have one of those silent conversations that they sometimes have. Brian nods encouragingly.

Everybody's gone very quiet to try and catch what they're saying and then Brian moves back off the stage to where he was and Michael says: “It seems that Justin Taylor's in the audience. Would you like to come up here and say a few words, Justin?” He's looking straight at me now and I just want to turn around and leave. Every eye in the room is on me. I glare at him and he just smiles. There's more applause and cheers and, in the end, I slowly make my way to the stage, remembering to glare at Brian as I walk past. He grins back at me.

Michael gets up to give me a hug. “It’s good to see you,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna kill you for this.” He just laughs.

Mitchell moves up a seat so I can sit next to Michael, but, really, he might as well just leave, because Rage has taken over the stage. I have to admire Michael for being so comfortable in this setting, whereas I fumble my way through questions about why I left, what I think of the new artwork and would I ever consider coming back? Then I’m fielding personal questions about JT’s and Rage’s relationship and I have trouble not to let my personal feelings about Brian and me bleed into it.

I look at him more than once and he seems extremely amused by the whole situation. As well he might be, because he's not up here. I contemplate revealing something really embarrassing about Rage – anal warts maybe? – but in the end, that would just be petty. Finally, this most nerve-wracking hour of my life comes to an end. People file past for autographs and I’m beginning to feel like a rock star. Brian has disappeared somewhere.

Eventually, the conference center staff usher out the last stragglers. Mitchell's left a while ago and it’s just Michael and me.

We make some tentative small talk, which is a bit awkward, given that we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms and haven’t talked for a long time. But he seems genuinely warm towards me and I’m beginning to thaw. It’s not as if he ever did me any deliberate harm. Selling Rage was definitely the best course of action to keep the comic alive. I couldn’t give it the attention it deserved and needed. After I sold it to him, we never spoke again and the once or twice that I tried to contact him in the weeks and months afterwards, he never answered. But then again, I've been guilty of the same.

“Ben's better,” he says all of a sudden.

“Ben was sick?”

“Didn’t you know? I’m sorry. Ben got sick just after you sold Rage to me. He was ailing with one thing or another for over two years. But now he’s on new medication and he's almost back to his old self. I didn’t really do much, other than look after him, for that time. I’m sorry I never got back to you. Ben being sick just took over my whole life.”

No wonder he looks so tired. “Don’t worry about it. So Ben’s fine now?”

Michael shrugs. “As fine as he’ll ever be. He's getting stronger. He’s even working out again. I think we’re over the worst of it.”   

“I wonder why your mom never told me.”

“When did you see my... oh... I’m sorry I never came. I wasn’t really in a place where I could cope with anything like that.” He doesn’t really look like he's in a much better place now either.

We both look up when the door opens and Brian saunters in. “Ah, I have a question,“ he says and raises his hand in a mocking imitation of the question and answer session. “Why are there never any orgies in the comic? Surely, Rage would have orgies in his lair.”

 

******

 

It took Ben and me a week to persuade Mikey that it would be a good idea to attend the symposium he’s been invited to. In the end, Ben told him that he was sick of his hovering now that he was better, and he wanted to be alone for once. Mikey relented reluctantly.

On the first day, we do the tourist thing, which bores me to tears. I already did the whole tour with Gus last year, when I brought him here for three days during his stay in the summer holidays. At least Mikey doesn’t want to eat at Burger Queen. Well, he would, but with him, I insist on decent restaurants for food. He calls Ben four times.

In the evening, he's too hyped up to go anywhere, so I get him incredibly drunk at the hotel bar. I keep thinking of the times Justin was here with me and wish I could just call him to come over. But I’m not sure where we stand after our last encounter – or rather: I’m pretty sure he wants nothing to do with me anymore. I can’t believe that I now have his phone number and his address and I still can’t just call him.

This is my life nowadays. Before Justin came along, I never wanted anything I couldn’t have. I'd trained myself not to want. In fact, I not only denied that I wanted, I denied that the things other people wanted even existed. It made me feel smug to see the people around me strive – and mostly fail – to find something that I was too clever to even look for.

But Justin blew all that pretty much out of the water. Up until his prom, I denied – to myself even more than to others – that things had changed, that I wanted something more, however ill-defined at the time, that I wanted him. After the prom, it was just a matter of not letting it show, most of all to him. I couldn’t give him that power over me and I'd learned not to show my feelings at an early age. Pretend and act like you don’t care long enough and it will become true.

At times, I hated him for making me feel the way I did and that made it easy to do things that would hurt him, to teach him painful lessons and keep him from gaining the upper hand. But you can’t cheat your destiny. I always knew that this was one battle I would lose in the end, because Justin wasn’t for me. He was too beautiful inside and out.

When I was a child, I often coveted my friends’ toys. They were shiny and new, mine were second-hand or not what I wanted in the first place. I vowed that I'd buy myself all the toys I could ever want when I grew up, and I did. But what I hadn’t realized as a child, and didn’t for the longest time as an adult, was that it wasn’t just the toys that I wanted, I also wanted the spirit in which they were given. And that's something you can never give yourself. You have to rely on other people to do that, to want to do that for you, to love you enough to do that for you.

By the time I realized I not only had a shiny new toy, but that it was also freely and lovingly given and that I wanted it, someone came and smashed it with a baseball bat. After that, I knew that it would be only a matter of time until I had to give it back or someone would break it or worse, I would. I tried not to get too attached, but in the end, all my trying not to want, left me with a longing that no determination or rage or time can quash.

So I don’t call him, which is just as well, because I’m here with Mikey and for Mikey. He needs this. He needs me. And I want to be there for him. Somehow the time I spend with him means more to him than anything I could ever buy him. I understand that now.

 

Today, Mikey's a bundle of nerves. The talk is due at three o’clock and we’ve been at the symposium all day. It’s interesting in an academic, esoteric kind of way. Ben would have a great time. I’m not so sure about some of the things that are being said. Are these people even gay? I recognize that they're doing good work, but I know the same about PFLAG and the GLC. Doesn’t mean I want to put myself in the middle of it. I always find a well-placed donation to be the most effective.

Mitchell tells us that the discussion they were going to have has been turned into a simple talk with an open forum afterwards, due to the fact that only he and Mikey could make it. He warns us that this is just a sideshow and not to expect too much, but I’m not so sure. Rage has really taken off in the last couple of years, with a lot of help from Kinnetik. The organizers seem to agree because we're in one of the larger halls and when we get there, it's already packed, with people lining the walls.

Mikey’s eyes turn huge and I’m no longer sure if this is a distraction that will be good for him or just more stress. But when he starts to talk, his inner superhero fan takes over and he fits right in with these people. Comic book geeks united. The question and answer session really floors me. These people know that Rage isn't real, right? They're worse than Mikey ever was.

I spot Justin as soon as he comes in. I always do. I didn’t expect him to be here. After what he said at our dinner, I'd have thought that Rage is a sore point with him. Maybe he regrets selling it now. It’s certainly bringing in quite a bit of money these days. But he's here and he's looking dumbfounded by what's going on. _Yeah, I’m right with you there, Sunshine._

This is the first time that I’ve seen him when he’s not dressed up for the occasion. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans and I would bet on sneakers, even though I can’t see his feet from here. I’m kind of wishing he wore his flannel shirt. Just for old times’ sake. From over here, he looks just as young as he did then, though his hair is longer. He really is beautiful, he always was.

He doesn’t actually spot me until Mikey introduces me, and I have to kill Mikey for that later. I decide that I shouldn’t be the only one suffering that fate and go up on stage to tell Mikey that Justin's here. He looks at me, not sure what he should do and I nod in reassurance. Then I go back to where I was. Justin’s face, when Mikey introduces him, is a picture, but he gamely takes on the challenge, just like I knew he would.

I watch him on stage and have to smile. He's pretty eloquent when it comes to his artwork, but a little out of his depth about the characters. I guess I was lucky he wasn’t up there when that woman asked about JT topping Rage – and what the fuck kind of question was that anyway?

I leave before anybody can think of asking me for my autograph and go to smoke outside for an hour. When I get back, Mikey and Justin are alone and they haven’t killed each other yet, so we can put this one in the win column.

Mikey looks exhausted. The last few years have been really hard on him and he's aged quite a bit. I suggest dinner at the hotel and Mikey asks Justin if he wants to join us, but he declines. He gives us some bullshit about having an appointment, which I don’t believe for a moment unless... he’s meeting a client. And that idea ruins my mood instantly.

Mikey excuses himself to go to the bathroom, as we're all walking out together. It gives Justin and me a few minutes alone time and Mikey's so not subtle. Even Justin has spotted this one, judging by his wry smile.

“He looks tired,” he says then.

“Yeah, the last two or three years have been tough.”

“I didn’t even know Ben was sick.”

 _Yeah, well, if you hadn’t changed your email address and phone number, you would have known._ Or not. Because Ben was sick before he did that and I'm beginning to think that Ben being sick was one of the reasons he did it in the first place. There were weeks when he'd have been unable to reach anyone, not even Debbie. Maybe he took it as a sign that no one wanted anything to do with him any longer. Why the hell didn’t Jennifer tell him? She knew.

“Why didn’t Debbie tell me when she saw me?”

I shrug. Why does Debbie ever do anything? But he looks at me expectantly, so I make an effort. “She was a mess. It reminded her too much of Vic. She never speaks about Ben being ill. I think she hopes it'll go away if she doesn’t talk about it.”

He nods.

“We were all caught up in it. There were bedside vigils for weeks. And Mikey and Deb pretty much needed 24 hour help. So there wasn’t really any time to... for anything.”

He nods again and I see Mikey coming along the corridor. “I have to look after Mikey,” I say, before he reaches us. “This is meant to be a vacation for him. I can’t just leave him and go off on my own.” I hope I’m not pushing my luck here. He’s talking to me, so that means he’s quieted down after his queen-out last time I saw him, right?

“Don’t worry,” he says and smiles wanly. “I can cope with seeing you and not fucking you all night.”

Then he turns to hug Mikey goodbye, sends his love to Deb and Ben, nods to me and strolls away. The little shit! Mikey rubs my back a couple of times for whatever reason he’s cooked up in that scrambled brain of his and we leave for the hotel.

It's impossible to calm Mikey down. He's totally wound up from the afternoon and talks non-stop and in the end, after dinner and a few drinks, I drag him to one of the clubs. We dance and drink some more and do a couple of bumps. He points out hot guys to me, but even if I hadn’t come to New York specifically to support him, I no longer go and fuck guys, expecting him to wait around until I’m done. That’s a pretty shitty thing to do to anyone.

But I'm very drunk and high when we leave the club. At the hotel, I pour Mikey into his bed because he's even further gone than I am. Bypassing my own room, I leave again to go to the address that cost me three hundred dollars to obtain. Private detectives do have their uses.

His house is very impressive, one of these cast iron buildings in SoHo, four stories high. I lean on the bell until Justin answers the door, or rather, until he pulls my hand off the bell, because I have my eyes closed and don’t realize that he's already here. Yep, I'm pretty drunk. I smile sweetly at him.

“You’re drunk.”

“Well spotted, Sherlock.”

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to go back to your hotel?”

“Nope.” To be honest, I’m no longer sure if I'd make it that far on my own. How did I get here again?

“Yeah, didn’t think so. Come on then.” He comes to stand next to me and pulls my arm over his shoulder to support me. It’s completely unnecessary because I can walk by myself just fine or I could if the floor would stay still.

He drags me into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, then he takes me upstairs. This place is huge. Really very impressive. On the first landing, he suddenly shouts: “It’s all right. It’s only Brian.”

“I know I’m Brian.”

He sighs. “I was talking to Marissa. You scared the shit out of her, ringing the bell at this time of night.”

Marissa? Oh, Marissa, the roommate, yeah, I remember. “Sor-ry,” I call out, but we're already in his room. It’s nice, big and comfy and full of his stuff and...  “I don’t wanna go to your room... I wanna see your paintings.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, at half past two in the morning.”

I’m sitting on his bed and he’s taking my shoes off. How did I get to the bed? I was by the door a moment ago. But Justin's taking my shirt off, so it doesn’t really matter. His hair looks really soft. I run my hand over it, as he bends down to undo my pants. Someone should tell him. “Soft.”

He looks up. “What?”

“Soft.” What was it again? Oh, yeah, I remember. “Your hair. It’s soft. And smells good... And you’re really beautiful.”

He looks incredulous. “Christ, Brian, what did you take?”

“Not sure.”

“Well, that was incredibly stupid. Where's Michael? I can’t believe he let you leave when you’re this wasted.”

I laugh because it’s funny. Why is that funny again? Ah, yes, because Mikey’s... “... even worse than me.”

“I doubt that’s even possible.”

I’m lying down now in just my underwear. His bed is comfy and he climbs in beside me and he's so nice  and warm. I put my arms around him and hold him close. I’ve missed him and this is nice and I...  “... wanna do this every night.”

“Get off your head? Be my guest.”

“Yeah, that... be your guest... every night... ”

He's very still now, then he says quietly: “Drink your water, Brian. You’re gonna hate yourself in the morning. And me.”

“Could never hate you.”

“Will you just shut up?” he says, really softly.

“Make me,” I chuckle.

No reaction.

“Make me... make me... make me... make me... make m...”

He kisses me. See? Works every time. I roll us over, so that I’m on top of him. He looks so small and sad. I smooth back his hair.

“Have any condoms?... don’t have any.”

“You fucked so many guys tonight that you’ve run out? Christ, Brian, thanks.”

“Didn’t take any... promised Ben to look out for Mikey.”

He softens again. “You’re a good friend, Brian.”

“He’s scared... thinks Ben’s gonna die... loves him... more than me...”

“Not more. Just differently.”

“Yeah... like me... and Mikey and you...”

“You should shut up now. You’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”

Regret? Do I regret anything with Justin? He’s caused me a lot of pain, more than anybody, more than I thought possible, but I...  “... don’t regret you... try... can’t...”

I kiss him for a long time. He's so soft and he smells good and he tastes good and I just want to have more of him. I make my way down his body, his smooth chest, his navel, that thin trail of hair. His cock springs free when I pull down his underwear, all hard and ready. His hands in my hair seemed to have wanted to pull me away for a bit there, but now they're just tangling in my strands.

“Brian,” he sighs, when I take him into my mouth and he’s already arching his back a little. I feel giddy with the smell of him and the sensation of having him fill my mouth and his moans that I love so much. I want this. Want this. Want this. I slip my hand around me own cock and stroke myself in the same rhythm as I’m sucking him. And when he gives me what I want, I come with him, groaning a little because it’s just what I need.

I must have passed out after that because when I wake up, I'm in Justin’s bed and have trouble remembering how I got here. Or what happened when I did. Justin is asleep, plastered against me and as much as I’m enjoying that, I don’t want to have to face him. It’s all coming back to me now. How could I have been so stupid? Justin's not Mikey. He won’t allow me to pretend it never happened or that I can’t remember it.

Very quietly retracing a path I vaguely remember being dragged along last night, I leave the house before anybody is up.

 

******

 

_Mikey wanted something. I could always tell when he wanted something. He'd start to say one thing and then go off on a tangent until he screwed up enough courage to try again. Usually, it meant that he knew I wouldn’t want to hear it. Or he was worried what I'd say. Like when we were kids and he'd ask for advice. Invariably, he'd hate my answers, but he'd always ask, and always follow._

_It could have been any number of subjects that he thought he should avoid around me: Justin, my parents, my new fuck buddy, his relationship with his mother or – my personal favorite – his relationship with Ben. Why the hell he thought I could advise him on relationship problems, I had no idea. When did I ever give the impression that I had all the answers – or any answers at all, really? Okay, maybe before Justin I had answers, but those were just for me, they never fitted Mikey, even if he tried to make them fit._

_So after a few days, I plied him with whisky and weed and settled down for ‘the talk’. He was pretty long-winded about it, telling me about this new story line he had for Rage. I'd lost interest in the comic when the wedding issue came out and had never really bothered since. So I nodded and grunted in all the right places until he finally came out with: “How's Justin?”_

_What the fuck? Hadn’t we just been talking about evil super villains? My brain was lagging behind my mouth a little because I answered rather truthfully: “You speak to him more than I do.” I didn’t like the tone much either. It sounded too... bitter, so I got up and got myself a bottle of water. If it was Justin he wanted to talk about, I wanted to be sober._

_“That’s just it,” he said, popping up from lying on the floor to follow me with his eyes.“I can hardly ever get hold of him. He seems to be working all the time. Does he really work all the time or is he just making excuses?”_

_Yeah, he was working all right. The times I'd been to see him, he had a shift at the restaurant on both occasions. I understood. He was new there and couldn’t expect favors from his boss yet. He needed the money, so he took all the work he could get. Really, I understood. The cost of living in New York was sky high, his rent was legalized robbery. I couldn’t even imagine how he could ever afford to paint there, in terms of money or time._

_But there was always doubt at the back of my mind. Was this what he really wanted? He was so caught up in his new life. He already had new friends and he seemed happy when I saw him. Was having no time really just having no time for_ me _? I could feel him slipping away and I had no right to stop him. I had no means to stop him if I wanted to._

_“He's insanely busy, Mikey.”_

_“He was supposed to send the new panels this week, but he’s not ready. I had to beg Mitchell for a reprieve.”_

_I nodded and went back over to him, sitting on the couch this time and he scrambled up slowly to sit next to me._

_“Is that what this is about?”_

_“Kinda. Actually, yeah, it is. I just think he’s no longer committed.”_

_Yeah, you and me both. "So what is it you’re asking me? Do I think he still cares about Rage? I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”_

_“I did. And he told me he's under enough pressure and he doesn’t need me on his back, too, thank you very much. So I was wondering...” He took a deep breath. “I wanna buy him out.”_

_What the fucking fuck? "You wanna kick him out?”_

_“No. I want to_ buy _him out. I’ve shown the books to Ted and he said 25,000 would be a good price. Ben knows this student who could do the art work and...”_

_“So, it’s all settled?”_

_“No. If it was, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”_

_“So you need money.”_

_“No. Well, yes, I do. But that’s not why I’m talking to you about it. I guess I want to talk to someone who's more in his corner than mine. I love Rage. It’s my baby. I want to keep it going and I want to make it a success. I can’t lose it. It would break my heart.”_

_He was right about that. Rage had always been closer to his heart than Justin’s. Comic books were such a huge part of his life and always had been. If things needed to be dropped, Rage would be at the bottom of Mikey’s list, on Justin’s it was probably nearer the top. He was young, what was once important didn't necessarily remain so._

_The comic didn’t generate that much of an income. There had been a slump recently. It seemed to be picking up now, but there was no guarantee of that. Justin might actually be happier and better off with the money. He could use it to work less and paint more. In comparison to his painting, Rage came a very poor second._

_I put my hand around the back of Mikey’s neck and squeezed. “Can’t have Mikey’s heart broken,” I said fondly, silently adding ‘I’ve done enough of that’ in my head. “I’ll lend you the money. Make the offer. If he doesn’t want to give it up, he can always say no.”_

_“I want to tell him myself. Please, don’t talk to him about it before I do. I just need to find the right moment.”_

_“I’m not gonna talk to him about it at all. That’s between you and him. Nothing to do with me.” It really had nothing to do with me. Neither of them would thank me for interfering. Well, maybe they would, but I refused to get involved. It was a business venture between two adults. Let them sort it out between themselves._

_It occurred to me that if Justin took the offer, he'd have even less reason to come to Pittsburgh and Mikey would talk less to him. It would mean that he'd be even further removed from my life, but I couldn’t refuse Mikey just to keep Justin that little bit more tied to me. Rage would be in serious trouble if things carried on like this and that wasn’t fair on Mikey, who was working his ass off for it._

_“You need better marketing,” I said._

_He sighed theatrically."Yeah, but, alas, I don’t know anybody in advertising.”_

_I grinned. “Leave it to me. I know just the right guy.”_

_After a while, he said quietly: “Thanks, Brian. You know I like Justin. I’m not even sure that I want him to go.”_

_“He hasn’t accepted yet.”_

_I was half hoping that he wouldn’t. It would mean that he was still attached to it and to his past. It would show that not having time for anything or anybody meant just that. So what if he was busy? I was busy, I could relate. My working hours were so insane that I had to get myself a fuck buddy because I didn’t have time for clubbing anymore. It saved time and Nick was in the same boat and under no illusion that this was anything that it wasn’t. The emphasis was definitely on ‘fuck’, not on ‘buddy’._

_I heard so little from Justin nowadays that Mikey mentioning that he'd talked to him was sometimes my only ‘contact’ with him for days. It would mean losing that tenuous bond, too, but I couldn’t ask Mikey to sacrifice Rage for that. I could always call Justin if I wanted to hear from him. I wouldn’t, but I could. I didn’t want to interfere with him making a new life for himself. About two months ago, he was crying on the phone one night, saying how much he missed me. What was I supposed to do with that?  I couldn’t encourage that. So, things were hard at first, but in the end, he would thank me for letting him do his own thing. I knew he still believed he'd come back to me at the end of it, but I also knew how unlikely that had always been._

_Despite my better judgment, I was pleased when Justin refused to sell._

_When he finally did sell, I hadn’t spoken to him for six months and it was as much of a relief for me as it was for Mikey. I finally accepted that it was over._


	5. Chapter 5

 

**PART FIVE**

Marissa is cleaning.

The envelope with the discreet black rim is sitting on the shelf as if it hasn’t been touched yet, but I know that Marissa has looked at its contents over and over again. It’s the reason the kitchen is so spotlessly clean after three days of her labor. And I mean spotless. You could eat off the floor. I find it strange that her mother has sent her a card just like any other guest, although she's called about half a dozen times as well. I suppose if Craig died, I would get just a card, if his new family would even be able to locate me.

I had to persuade Marissa to attend her father’s funeral. There's a huge amount of money at stake and I’ll be damned if I allow her to let the bastard win. His final instructions are an exercise in parental cruelty. I have no doubt that he thought he was doing it ‘for her own good’. Tough love. Fathers are good at that. Only, they tend to go with the tough and leave out the love and all it comes down to in the end is: ‘Do my bidding or face the consequences.’

“Go and shower, Marissa.”

“In a minute.”

“Now, Marissa, or we’ll be late. The car will be here in forty minutes.”

She's polishing the same spot over and over again, as if her life depends on it and in a way it does. No one told me before I moved in that she also suffers from OCD. It keeps the house clean, but it's painful to watch.

“If you don’t go right now, I will carry you there and put you in the shower with your clothes on.”

It’s no idle threat. I actually had to do that once, about a year ago, to make sure she didn’t miss an important appointment with her doctor, when she had a cancer scare. She seems to remember that as well, because she looks up and glances at me. Then she nods and walks towards the door. I grab the cloth off of her as she walks past me and for a moment it looks like she wants to protest, but then she just goes off to her room. After a couple of minutes, I follow her and wait outside her door until I hear the shower come on. Seems like we’re back on track. Time to go and have my own shower.

An hour later, we arrive at the church. The car ride was the easy bit. The tinted windows help her feel safe, but getting her into it wasn't so easy. We had two attempts to get over the threshold and one run back into the house, before she managed to get down the five steps outside our home and cross the sidewalk to get into the car. And that's just from anticipating what’s to come.

Now we’re here, it’s even worse. Marcus Houston was very rich, very important and very well-connected. The place is crawling with guests. But there's a back entrance and, after a bit of coaxing, she follows me in. The inside of the church is cool and quiet, as they usually are. Marissa’s mother greets us there and she hugs first Marissa, then me. She's been to the house a few times, usually when her husband was away on business, and she seems nice enough, mousy, nervous, easily intimidated, yet maybe a little less so today.

As I sit down next to Marissa in the family pew – I have no choice because she won’t let go of my hand or my arm – I wonder if mom, had she stayed married to dad, would have been relieved if he died. Because that's the main vibe that I’m getting here today, not sadness, just a quiet relief.

It's a very long service and there are a lot of speakers, who want to honor him, mainly friends and colleagues, not family. And, of course, there are half a dozen charities he was heavily involved in. These people always are. Though for Marcus Houston ‘involved’ probably meant writing checks and hosting expensive dinners, not stuffing envelopes and marching in parades like Debbie does. Or did. I wouldn’t know if she still does. Why didn't I ask Brian, or even Michael, when I had the chance?

Finally, we're in the vestibule with her mother, to shake the hands of the mourners coming out. I stand behind Marissa because if she were to hold my hand here, people would quite rightly wonder who the hell I am and I never even met her father. But I place my hand on the small of her back so she knows I’m there. Despite our silent breathing exercises during the service, she's at the end of her rope, I can feel it.

People file past and I don’t pay much attention to them until something makes me look up. It’s like a sixth sense. There, in the line of mourners, is Brian, dressed in a dark suit with a dark shirt and tie. He looks stunning and our eyes meet and lock, while everyone shuffles forward at a snail’s pace. He looks at me strangely or maybe he’s just suitably somber for the occasion. When it's his turn, he shakes hands, first with her mother, then with Marissa herself, without saying a word. As she turns away to the next guest, he looks at me, smiles very briefly and says,“3-25.”

Marissa looks back at him curiously now and turns to look at me, but he's already putting on his sunglasses and stepping out into the sunlight. I watch him as he ambles away without a care in the world and I want nothing more than to follow him. 

 

We arrive back home by seven o’clock. Marissa is exhausted but happy and kind of proud of herself and I’m proud of her, too. She lasted all afternoon and she's proven to her shit of a father that she has more backbone than he ever had. Although, with him being dead, I doubt that he’ll care.

At half past nine, Helen, Marissa’s friend arrives and I excuse myself for the night. I'm thinking of painting for a while, but the light isn’t right for my current piece and...who am I kidding? Brian's in town and nothing else matters right now. After showering and getting changed, I go and hail a taxi, hoping that I didn’t misunderstand his cryptic clue from this afternoon.

As I knock on the door of room 325 at the Four Seasons hotel, I wonder what the hell I'm doing here. I've been in a gloomy mood all day, thinking of funerals and parents and I’m not really in the right frame of mind for a fuckfest, too tired, too pre-occupied. But I haven’t seen Brian since the disaster of our last meeting two weeks ago. When he was gone in the morning, after turning up drunk at my house and giving me an amazing blowjob, I knew that he regretted it. Brian freaks out when he lets his mask slip and he either acts out to counteract it or he pretends it never happened. Now that he's reached out to me, he might never want to see me again if I don’t turn up tonight. And who knows, maybe an all-night fuck is just what I need after all.

There's no answer and I wonder if maybe I got it wrong. But what else could he possibly have meant by the numbers? Too short for a phone number. A different hotel? But this is the only one we ever met in, apart from the one I booked into when I ran away with his credit card and I can’t remember the name of that one. Maybe he just got bored with waiting and has gone out to find something to do. Or someone.

I’m guessing that's the right answer because, as I turn to go downstairs to have a look in the hotel bar, I see him at the end of the corridor. And he's not alone.

 

******

 

I've been to way too many funerals where I don’t give a shit about the deceased. Marcus Houston was a pompous ass and a control freak, but he was also one of our bigger clients. I can’t very well not attend when I get a notification and there's always business talk at the reception. Sometimes I wonder if that's the only reason there even is a reception.

I’m seated with ten minutes to spare, next to Darren Moats, whom I know in passing from last year’s Clio awards. The last time I was at a funeral where I gave a damn was Vic’s. In fact, that was probably the only funeral I've ever been to that meant something to me. At the time, I was preoccupied with my own mortality and that was one of the reasons I shelled out so much money to have the hospice named after him. It was my way of saying sorry to Vic that I'd been thinking more about myself than him at his funeral. I’m sure he understood. It made Debbie happy, too. I kind of owed her.

All these thoughts are wiped from my mind, the minute Justin enters the church. He comes through the back and he has some middle-aged woman with him, who hangs onto him for dear life. They're greeted by Marcus Houston’s widow, who hugs them both.

I nudge Darren and nod towards them. “Who're they?”

“His widow, and his daughter. The guy's probably the daughter’s caregiver. She's a bit mental, apparently. Or a junkie. I can’t remember.”

“Marissa,” I mumble and everything comes together suddenly. I always thought that Marissa was Justin’s own age, although I had no real reason for that assumption.

“Yeah, I think so,” Darren says.

So this is Justin’s newest project. Justin has always had some worthy cause to fight for: the student alliance, Stockwell, the Pink Posse, Prop 14. It seems he's shifted his focus from public to private. Interesting. I wasn’t aware that Houston had a daughter and I certainly didn't make the connection from Justin’s roommate to him.  

I have a perfect view of Justin from where I'm sitting and suddenly the whole affair is no longer tedious. He seems focused on the woman rather than the proceedings and I watch him with unadulterated pleasure for over two hours until he walks with her to the front door of the church for the procession. He looks beautiful in his dark suit.

Neither Justin nor Marissa are at the reception, at least not in the rooms reserved for the guests. In the evening, I sit in my room, waiting for him, feeling more and more pathetic as time passes. With the way that woman was clinging to him, it's highly unlikely that he'll be able to get away tonight and this brooding about funerals and regrets isn't much fun either. And maybe he doesn’t want to see me again after our last encounter. We might have been talking, somewhat, and I gave him a blowjob, but I, of all people, should know how little that can mean. Part of me feels so awkward about that particular night, that I’m dreading seeing him again. But not as much as I dread _not_ seeing him.

I go to the bar downstairs and have a few drinks. There are some likely prospects, but I want to give him a little longer until I give up. And then, a little longer has become ridiculously long and I pick up that guy at the end of the bar, who's been eyeing me for the past half an hour or so. I suppose it was a little presumptuous to think Justin would just come running if I throw my hotel number at him. Those days are long gone.

When I spot him outside my door, I turn to the trick and tell him to fuck off. He swears at me, but I’m no longer even listening, I'm so focused on the man at my door. For a moment, it seems like he wants to say something. He looks down the corridor to where the guy has disappeared, but then he just answers my, “Hey,” with one of his own.

I lean my back against the door as soon as we're inside the room. That seems to be his M.O. nowadays, push me backwards and then attack. This time, there's a short hesitation before he steps forward and kisses me. It's different from the other times, softer, languid. His hands are in my hair and he pushes his tongue inside my mouth almost gently and then he just doesn’t stop. In turn, I push my hands under his top, which is untucked from his pants, and run them slowly up and down the soft skin on his back.

I was horny as hell a minute ago, but now I just want to stay here and kiss him some more. He seems in a strange mood. I’m not even sure if he wants to fuck and as long as I’m not sure, I can’t. Other guys I will push when they're reluctant, it’s part of the game, but with Justin I can’t. He seems fragile just now, vulnerable, maybe even upset. And then I realize that, if I've been thinking about funerals all day, he must have been thinking about... I’m such a moron.

He stops kissing me, just a few more nips along my jawline and then his head comes to rest on my shoulder with his forehead nestling in the crook of my neck. I put one arm on his shoulder and play with his hair. I also can’t resist kissing the top of his head. Old habits die hard. I should say something, really... something real, like, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.’

In the end, “Do you want a drink?” is all that comes out.

He nods and we disentangle. At the bar, I hold up the whisky bottle, but he shakes his head, so I get two beers from the small fridge instead. He's walked over to the window and is looking out into the night. Not much to see on the third floor.

“So, that was Marissa?”

He nods and takes a gulp.

“Something wrong with her? She looked like she was about to pass out.”

“She’s got agoraphobia. Crowds and large places can trigger panic attacks. She’s also got OCD. Hence the gloves.”

“Why’d she bother? She could have just stayed in her seat and let the mother do it. Was she close to her father? I didn’t even know he had a daughter.”

“He practically disowned her when she was diagnosed. She hadn’t seen him for eighteen years when he died. But he stipulated in his will, that she had to be at the funeral and shake everyone’s hand. Otherwise she'd be disinherited.”

“Fucker.” It never ceases to amaze me what people do to their own kids. Fathers, in particular.

There's a long pause. “When was the last time you saw _your_ dad?”

“At the funeral. He was having a go at Molly for wanting to go to PIFA. We threw him out.”

There's no need to specify which funeral he's talking about. For Justin there's only one that really counts and that was two and a half years ago. “Molly's at PIFA?” The very idea makes me smile. Craig must love that!

“She’s here now. At the conservatory. She only stayed one semester at PIFA before she transferred. Dad disowned her and she had nothing to stay for.”

 _Just like you. Nothing there at all that might make you want to come back_. But now is not the time for reprimands and hurt feelings. Just this once, I can be what he needs.

“Do you wanna go to bed?”

He turns to look at me for the first time. His face shows a mixture of disgust and amusement. God, I suck at this being-supportive thing. “I meant you look tired. You’ve been on your feet all day. Get some rest.”

I have to occupy myself with tidying up a bit and switching the lights off, while he's undressing because a naked Justin will not be conducive to my determination to be supportive in a non-sexual way. Eventually, I get undressed, too, and slip into bed next to him. And that's as far as I got with this plan, when it was still in my head. I'm afraid to touch him because he's so remote. I promised him some rest, but if I touch him I _will_ get hard. It’s a given. Justin does that to me, every single time. I don’t want him to think that this is a ploy to fuck him.

But after a few moments, he puts his head on my shoulder. His body is plastered against my side and he's half-hard himself. I can feel his breath soft on my skin.

“I hate funerals,” he sighs.

“Most people do.” _Well done, Kinney. Could you say something a little more trite?_ It's dark now and he can’t see me, so I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come to your mother’s funeral, Justin. I wasn’t sure if you wanted me there. I didn’t want to make it worse. You had enough to cope with.”

I can feel him nod, but it’s a long time before he says: “She liked you, you know.”

“I kinda liked her, too. She scared me a little. She was so fierce when it came to you.”

“When we split up that time before the bombing, she was the only one who tried to persuade me to try again. Even Michael was angry with you at the time and said he understood why I left. But Mom said how sorry she was that it didn’t work out. She liked you.”

“When you turned me down the first time, she told me how sorry she was I wouldn’t be her son-in-law.”

He nods. “I haven’t cried once since she died,” he adds eventually and then everything is quiet. After a while I notice his breathing evening out and I know he's asleep.

I lie awake for a couple of hours after that, trying to memorize the feeling of him next to me, of his skin against mine, his warmth. Tomorrow I will say something incredibly stupid and we'll argue and he will storm out. But for now, he's here and I don’t even think it strange that I’m in bed before midnight, holding a guy in my arms whom I haven’t even fucked.

Later, I wake up to hearing him cry quietly. He has turned away from me and after some hesitation, I spoon up behind him, enfolding him in my arms, stroking a gentle hand over his chest. He puts his hand over mine and entwines our fingers and he doesn’t stop crying for a long time. His body shakes with silent sobs and however uncomfortable I am right now, I realize how cathartic this is for him. In the morning we can always pretend that this hasn’t happened or that we were both only half-awake when it did. He'll be embarrassed about this and, quite frankly, so will I.

When I wake up again after that, he's kissing my chest, laving my nipples and nipping at my skin now and again. I pull his head up to kiss him and then, when I’m sure he's certain about this, I fuck him slowly with his legs tight around my waist, kissing him the whole time until we tip over the edge almost gently.

 

My wake-up call comes in at seven thirty. Justin groans and burrows himself further under the covers. I smile down at him, well, at the tuft of hair that's sticking out at the top. “I've meetings all day and I have a flight home tonight. I have to be checked out by midday, but you can stay until then, if you like.”

He grumbles something that I don’t quite catch, but unfortunately I don’t have time to investigate. And believe me, I would really like to investigate _him_ right now. I feel tempted to ask him to join me in the shower, but I don’t want to push my luck. He stayed the night. That’s progress.

When I reach the bathroom, I hear him call my name gently. He's pulled the covers off his top half and is looking at me with a serious expression on his face. “Thank you.” I know he’s not talking about the offer to stay in bed a bit longer and just nod.

In the shower, I wonder why I'm thinking about progress. Where the hell do I want this to go? Justin and I have done the whole run, from boy meets boy to getting engaged. And yes, I admit that Justin did almost all the work by himself. But in the end, we were right there and still it didn’t work out.

I wanted him to go to New York. I wanted him to grow on his own, to live his own life, to achieve something away from me. And then I wanted him to come home, be proud of himself, be an equal partner. I would've been ready to start again or rather to pick up where we left off. But he didn’t come home. He took off and then he disappeared completely. Now he’s here again, but he’s not really here. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want this anymore. The fucking, yes. The rest of me, not so much.

And what do I want? That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? It seems that I can’t really answer that. All I know is what I don’t want. I don’t want a fuck buddy. I don’t want Justin to be so cagey and defensive all the time. I don’t want to have to leave seeing him to chance. I don’t want to have to chase him. I don’t want to have to beg.

When I come out of the shower, it doesn’t come as a great shock to me that Justin is gone.

 

******

 

_The house was full of people I barely knew. Sure, there was Aunt Jean, but she'd come alone from Tulsa. She'd been widowed for some time now and her children had cried off coming to Mom’s funeral. I didn’t blame them. I doubted that I'd have gone to Aunt Jean’s funeral if the roles had been reversed. But at least, she was practical and she had done this before and could help us with a lot of stuff. And in the end, she'd take Mom’s urn with her to be buried with my grandparents._

_Neither Molly nor I knew where we'd end up in the future, so it seemed right that Mom should be with them. I didn’t want to have to come back to Pittsburgh to visit her grave all the time. Aunt Jean would look after it. And how the hell had my grandparents ended up moving from Pennsylvania to Oklahoma anyway?_

_The rest of the people were friends of Mom’s from various clubs, mostly women of my mom’s age. Brenda, her best friend since college. And then there was Debbie, strangely subdued, pottering about in the kitchen, as if she owned the place. I'd been surprised to see her when Mom was ill. I hadn’t been back to Pittsburgh for almost eight months, hadn’t spoken to any of the gang for the same time period, but Deb never said a word about that. She'd hugged me when I saw her the first time and told me how sorry she was and then she'd been here two or three times a week during all of Mom’s illness. She and Brenda had become firm friends._

_Earlier, I'd come across my dad and Molly arguing about her going to PIFA. He turned around and looked at me, as if this was all my fault. I hadn’t even known that she'd applied there, never mind that she'd been accepted._

_“Do you want to end up like your brother?” he asked her. “Waiting tables waiting for your ‘big break’? I told him he wouldn’t amount to anything, being an artist. It doesn’t pay the bills. Ask him!”_

_Molly turned to look at me and I just shrugged. I couldn’t deny that he was right._

_“You know what, Dad?” she said coldly. “I want to do ballet. And you can just fuck off.”_

_That was when I stepped in. Remembering what had happened to me, I stepped forward and pulled her back a bit, in case he'd slap her, too. But he looked completely stunned._

_“This is Mom’s house,” she carried on. “And now it belongs to Justin and me. And you're no longer welcome here. I don’t know why you bothered to come in the first place. Mom didn’t even like you any longer.”_

_“I came to support my children.”_

_“I haven’t been your son in a long time,” I said. “And it looks like Molly doesn’t want to be your daughter anymore either. Just leave.”_

_“You did this,” he hissed. “You put these ideas into her head. You and your sissy ways.”_

_I just stared him down and, in the end, he turned and left the house._

_Afterwards, Molly and I were sitting on the couch in the middle of the living room with subdued conversations around us, getting slowly drunk on red wine. Every now and then, someone would come up to us and express their sympathy and their desire to leave. Luckily, Molly knew most of them._

_“So, what are you gonna do now?” I asked._

_“Don’t know,” she said. “Mom was so sure she could persuade Dad to cough up for my education.”_

_“I think you should go. I've some money that'll cover you for the first year. I want you to go.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_I nodded, the wine giving me confidence. I had most of the settlement money from Rage still in the bank, being too worried to spend any of it, saving it for a rainy day. Ah well, it seemed like it was pouring now. And the rest I'd find somehow. Now that I was living rent-free, I was working fewer shifts at the restaurant, but I could increase them again easily. Paul was always hassling me to do overtime anyway. If I even had a job left there, after spending six weeks in Pittsburgh. Or maybe I'd give that guy a call, the one with the escort agency._

_“How long are you staying here?” Molly asked._

_“Till everything's settled. I thought if you'd move into the dorms at PIFA, we can sell the condo. We won’t get much for it because of the mortgage, but every little helps. And during your breaks you can come and stay with me in New York.”_

_“You’ve got everything under control, haven’t you?”_

_“I discussed it with Mom before she got too bad.” In the end, the brain tumor had left her with memory loss and hallucinations. She hadn’t told us she was sick until six weeks ago. Four weeks later, she was bed-ridden and two weeks after that she was dead._

_Molly sniffled, then she excused herself and rushed upstairs. She never cried in front of me and I didn’t cry in front of her. In fact, I hadn’t cried at all yet. I was worried that if I started, I'd never be able to stop._

_The house was almost empty now. I carried on with my attempt to get as drunk as I possibly could on Bordeaux. After a while, Debbie came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel and sat down beside me._

_“How are you holding up, Sunshine?”_

_I smiled at her. Just hearing her voice and that nickname made me feel warm._

_“I’m well on the way to not holding up any longer. I’m hoping to be horizontal and passed out very soon.”_

_“Can’t say that I blame you, kiddo.” She'd picked up a glass of her own and was filling it with wine. Being who she was, she filled it to just under the rim. I smiled again._

_“So, are you going back to the big city soon?”_

_“When everything‘s settled. Molly will live in the dorms at PIFA.“_

_“And will I never hear from you again, like I haven’t heard from you for the past year or so?” It was an exaggeration, it was more like nine months and I felt tempted to ask her why I hadn’t been able to contact anyone after I'd sold Rage. No one was ever around to answer my phone calls. If it had been just one of them, I wouldn’t have worried about it. But all of them? It had to have been deliberate. Maybe it was like it had been after my parents’ divorce, when most people sided with Craig, because he'd been their friend first and was also their business partner._

_I kind of resented that she made it sound like it was all my fault. Admittedly, my attempts at contacting people had been half-hearted and few and far between. What the hell was I supposed to tell people when they asked how I was getting on? When I realized that nobody was taking my calls anymore, there had definitely been some relief mixed into my reaction. But mainly it had just hurt._

_“What would be the point, Deb?”_

_“The point is that you’re part of the family.”_

_“Really? Then tell me, where is everybody? There was a bunch of women here that I don’t know. And my aunt. And my mom’s best friend. And you. If I’m part of the family, where's the family?”_

_“They haven’t heard from you for months. They didn’t know if they'd be welcome.”_

_There had been cards from everyone. Melanie and Lindsay had sent flowers and so had Brian. Despite the long silence, I'd expected a more personal touch from all of them. No, I'd expected a more personal touch from Brian. There had been a card with his flowers, telling me to let him know if I needed anything._

_Yes, I needed something. I needed him here. I needed his support, his strength, his care. Even though we were no longer together, no longer even talking, I'd hoped he'd want to be here with me. Stupid. I knew that, but I could never stop wishing and hoping. And it would have made everything a little easier._

_“He loves you,” Debbie said, as if she’d read my mind. “He probably thought it would just make it harder for you to have to deal with him on top of everything else.”_

_“Or maybe he just didn’t want to deal with it himself. We all know he doesn’t like any displays of emotions, his own or other people’s.”_

_“Maybe,” she admitted and I snorted, not quite sure at what. Then she continued. “Where were you when_ his _mother died?”_

_My alcohol-addled brain took a few moments to process what she had said. What?_

_“What? When did his mother die?”_

_“Last July. She had liver failure. Brian didn’t even go to the funeral. Paid for it, though. You didn’t know?”_

_“How could I have known? I haven’t spoken to any of you in months.”_

_“And whose fault's that, Sunshine? Anyway, your mother knew. I told her. We assumed she told you.”_

_I'd asked my mom not to speak about Debbie or Brian or any of the gang. We had too many phone conversations where all I was doing was waiting anxiously for any news she might have gathered from Debbie at her PFLAG meetings. I was always disappointed when she didn’t mention Brian. I didn’t want that. I wanted our phone calls to be about us and Molly, not about Brian. So, in the end we agreed to never talk about any of that again._

_“I didn’t know, Deb. Mom never told me.”_

_“Because you forbade her to talk about Brian.”_

_“We had other things to talk about. Why didn’t he tell me?”_

_“Like you told him about your mother?”_

_I looked at her and she held my gaze with ease. Debbie might change her mind about things occasionally, but while she had an opinion she wouldn't hold back or back down. I smiled._

_“I’m not gonna win this argument, am I?”_

_She shook her head, but there was no smile. I was in deep shit trouble. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Sunshine. If you're in trouble, then tell me or Brian or Ted, for all I care. And if you’re not in any trouble, then I have to say, I’m very disappointed in you, Justin. I never thought you would just forget about us.”_

_“It’s not like that. Brian and I aren’t talking. Michael and I aren’t talking. I can’t have a conversation with any of the rest of you without skirting around uncomfortable subjects. There's no point.”_

_She sat quietly for a while, turning her empty wine glass one way, then back the other. I got the distinct impression that she was gearing up to tell me something important and I wasn’t entirely sure if I wanted to hear it. She looked really tired, but that might just be from helping out with looking after Mom so much. In the end, she just sighed. “Maybe you’re right,” she said then and got up._

_I watched her gather her things and walked her to the door. There, she gave me a bone-crushing hug. “I’m sorry about your mom, Sunshine. You take good care of your sister. And take good care of yourself.”_

_“Thank you,” I said quietly._

_The next week, I called Phil and arranged a meeting._

_Three weeks later, I returned to New York and the week after that I got a new email address and cell phone number. When Molly moved to New York after the first semester, I promised myself I would never even think about Pittsburgh again._


	6. Chapter 6

 

**PART SIX**

The invitation arrived in the mail a week ago. It’s for _Justin Taylor and Guest_ , but I've decided to go on my own. With Brian there, I won’t be able to pay attention to anyone else anyway and this time I know in advance that Brian will be there because the invitation is for the grand opening of Kinnetik, New York, tonight. And, suddenly, the fact that Brian seems to be in New York all the time makes perfect sense.

I can’t believe he’s finally done it and that it only took him six years to get Kinnetik off the ground and into the stratosphere. At the party I was attending with Cal last weekend, I overheard a few people talking about the news. Some were his clients already and they were singing his praises in the highest tones. Cal told me that the bigger advertising firms might not be quaking in their boots just yet, but were certainly watching with interest, even discomfort in some cases. I had a proud grin on my face all evening.

At the bottom of my invitation is a single line in Brian’s handwriting. _The car will collect you at 7.45._ I've changed my clothes twice already, from suit to tuxedo to a different suit. I think I'll stick with this one. When I hear the door bell, I rush downstairs, only to come to a sudden stop at the bottom.

Brian is standing in the hallway, chatting away to Marissa as if he's known her for years. Marissa is smiling at him and I know she's utterly charmed. It’s all there in her body language. They turn to me when I arrive.

“Brian,” I say and he smiles. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, there's the opening of Kinnetik and since you're so beautifully dressed, I assume you're going there, too. I thought we could share the ride – to save on the fare, you know.”

I feel myself blush at the compliment he slipped in there so casually. In the limousine, I tell him about the party I went to and what was said about him and Kinnetik. He's smiling all the way.

Kinnetik NY is located in an old theatre. In the entrance, all the old features have been retained, with the receptionist having her desk in the old ticket booth. Inside, there's an open plan work area where the seats used to be. The balcony area has been converted into offices for human resources and finance and, of course, the stage is Brian’s office, with an adjacent second office and a conference room.

We have time for a quick look around before the other guests arrive. His office is beautiful, cordoned off by glass walls, which have wooden frames in keeping with the woodwork of the theatre. He can easily overlook his empire from here, if...

“Are you going to run the New York office yourself?” I ask, suddenly no longer sure of my assumption.

“What do you think?” he asks, bemused that I’m even asking.

I smile. “And how are you going to have a lunchtime fuck in here with all these glass walls?”

He grins and moves over to his desk to flick a switch that turns the glass opaque.

“Privacy glass, very impressive.”

“I must admit it’s mainly to keep meetings in the conference room private,” he says and switches it back to transparent. “I don’t fuck in the office anymore.”

“Really?”

“Justin, I haven’t fucked anybody in the office for five years. I haven’t fucked an employee since Kip Thomas – or you, if you want to count your internship. I don’t fuck for accounts anymore and there really are better places.“

I’m not quite sure what to say to that, so I just nod. I'm trying very hard not to read anything into what he says and does anymore. I used to do that a lot, always interpreting and analyzing every nuance of his words and behavior, always hoping that I would find some confirmation of his feelings for me. Now, I’m telling myself that it doesn’t have anything to do with me, the fact that he’s moving to New York or that he's slowed down a little in his private life.

“I have to go and greet the guests,” he says, as we're walking out the door. “You go and amuse yourself if you like, unless...”

“Unless?”

His tongue moves into his cheek. “Unless you want to stand up with me?”

“As what?”

He nods a few times. “What indeed,” he says and strolls away towards the front to start receiving the guests, who are just beginning to arrive.

And I'm left standing here, wondering what the hell just happened. Did he really just ask me to greet the guests with him? What is he proposing as an introduction? Friend? Partner? Regular fuck? I'm really none of those things anymore. But the offer was made and I rejected it offhand, because it was so unexpected that I had no time to think. It leaves me feeling guilty that I might have hurt his feelings.

We're firmly back to square one. When I think back on my time with Brian, my overwhelming feeling is insecurity. It overshadowed all my dealings with him. At first, there was always the worry that he might not choose me to take home. That, when he was nasty to my face, he wouldn’t counteract it later by fucking me into the mattress. Even when he did take me home, there were times when he wouldn't let me stay.

When I lived with him, I was always prepared to walk in on him fucking some guy or him going off with some guy. My first action on coming home was always to check the sleeping area for signs that there was someone else there and even if there wasn’t, I couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t return with a trick in tow. It hurt, but not as much as the verbal attacks he'd launch into when he felt threatened, when he'd inadvertently given his feelings away and needed to remedy that by showing me my place, when he would try to take away all the little gems that he gave me sometimes. It took all my strength to hang on to them and to ignore his harsh or indifferent words.

I knew that he loved me long before he admitted it. That was never the issue. It was the fact that his love didn't translate into consideration for my feelings. He could be hurtful or indifferent or deliberately cruel and it was all supposed to be okay because deep down he loved me? Yes, I know what he did for me. I was there. And I know that he has his demons and that, more often than not, they're stronger than him, and I put up with everything because I knew all that.

But my strength ran out when he took back all the things he gave me with his proposal, just like he used to do before. Not the house or anything like that. No, what he took away was his support and his openness. As soon as I moved to New York, he was back to his old self, pushing me away, pretending we weren't that important to each other, withdrawing his care. I just didn't have the strength to start all over again and it would have been impossible anyway while I was in a different city, because Brian, for all his projected confidence, needs constant reassurance. Why else would he have kept Michael so close all these years?

And here's what really gets me: while I allow myself to get hurt by him because I know how fragile he really is and that he doesn’t mean it, it kills me to hurt him in any way. Like now. The idea that he might be upset by my refusal makes my heart constrict in pain and makes me want to throw myself at him and ask his forgiveness and agree to anything he might cook up in that weird-ass brain of his. I really never stood a chance because the walls around my heart aren’t Kinney-proof.

I watch him talk and laugh with people and I wonder if he's already forgotten what just happened and if I’m the only one, as usual, who analyzes things ad nauseam. And what did I really say that was so terrible? I just pointed out the obvious, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty about it.

I'm incredibly relieved when I spot Ted. This should get me out of my funk. He comes towards me with a big smile and, to my surprise, draws me into a hug. Ted and I have never been close. He might  be just a few years older than Brian, but when I met them, Brian was young and exciting, whereas Ted seemed settled somehow and, despite flashes of wickedly funny sarcasm, boring. To my seventeen-year-old self he was practically on his deathbed, quite literally that one time. Now he seems somehow younger than he was then. He oozes confidence and good humor and... happiness.

“Justin, it’s good to see you. Brian said you two met up again. How do you like the new branch of Kinnetik?”

“It’s very impressive. Are you here alone?”

“Alas, yes, this is work. Blake stayed at home.”

“Are you moving here with Brian?”

“Me? No. Bri offered us a partnership in the New York branch if one of us moved with him, but Blake and three of his colleagues are in the middle of setting up a counseling clinic specially geared towards gays and lesbians. He doesn’t want to move, so I don’t.”

“So you sacrificed your career for love?” Brian must have loved that.

Ted laughs heartily for a lot longer than the remark really warrants, if it warrants laughing at all.

“You know, you and Brian really are two of a kind. He said the same thing – almost word perfect. Only he added a few expletives. ”

He smiles at me and then he turns more serious. “You want to know what I said?”

I can only nod, acknowledging to myself that Brian’s teachings may have gone a lot further than great sex. Sometimes it’s hard to work out which thoughts are my own any longer.

“I told him it’s not a sacrifice. It’s a matter of priority. Given the choice between getting ahead in my job and being happy with the man I love, I’ll choose love any day. Because if I lose my job, I can get another one, even if it’s shitty, but if I lose Blake, I’ve lost everything. No job's ever going to make up for that.”

“What did Brian say to that?”

He laughs again. “That he would make losing my job a reality, if I didn’t stop spouting romantic bullshit in his office. Listen, can I catch you later? I need to mingle.”

“Sure.”

I smile as I watch Ted work the room, which is filling up rapidly. Ted has learned a lot from Brian, but the romantic in me – the one that somehow proves impossible to silence – would like to think that Blake has given him that extra bit of confidence that makes it all work.

I walk around, drinking the free champagne, and greet one or two people that I recognize. Luckily there are very few of them. For a while, I chat with Cynthia, who's now the proud partner in Kinnetik NY. At the buffet, I run into Callum Leland of all people.

“Hey, Justin. How are you? Who are you here with?”

“Hey, Cal. I think I’m with Brian actually.” Well, I most certainly hope that I'll be leaving with him at least.

“So he really did turn out to be friendly in the end?”

“Very.”

“You know, this must be the first time that I’m talking to you when I’m not paying you to have to stay and listen.”

“And yet, surprisingly, I haven’t fled screaming in the opposite direction yet.”

He laughs and bumps my shoulder. Then he draws me out of the way a little and we start a conversation about mutual acquaintances – Cal always has the juiciest gossip – and art and the lack thereof in here. I didn’t notice that before. The walls are crying out for it. I have no desire or reason to talk to anyone else, so we just carry on. Hiding out in a corner with Cal suits me just fine.

Suddenly, I feel an arm slung over my shoulder from behind, the hand splayed on my chest and I know it’s Brian without looking. It’s the way he just seems to fit against my back, the way he feels and maybe the way he smells.

“Hey, Cal,” he says and shakes Cal’s hand without letting go of me. “Are you enjoying the show?”

“Very much so. You’ve done a wonderful job. Everything looks great.”

“Thank you. I need Justin for a moment. Would you excuse us?”

“Sure. It was nice talking to you again, Justin.”

“You, too, Cal.”

Brian takes my hand and walks a few steps. I feel like this is the first time that we're holding hands when there's no obvious reason for it, like not losing each other in a crowd. Brian isn't a hand-holder, it smacks too much of commitment for him. Whenever he used to hold my hand in public for whatever reason and for however short a period of time, it would always make me giddy with happiness and excitement. It was like, for that moment in time, he was claiming me as his, he wasn't ashamed of being seen with me, of everybody knowing what we were to each other. These moments would make me look at my hand and still feel his large protective one wrapped around it for days afterwards.

And now, after all that happened and all the time that's passed, I still feel just as giddy.

 

******

 

While I'm being driven to Justin’s home in the limousine, I have doubts for the first time. Our last meeting went well, as far as I can tell. I was supportive and he said thank you in the morning. That’s good, right? So he left while I was in the shower. He was probably embarrassed about bawling his eyes out in the night. Not that I blamed him for that. If that was what he needed, I could endure feeling uncomfortable for a while.

But what if he's decided not to attend tonight? I will look a complete fool if I turn up and he tells me he’s not going or if he’s not even home. I’m relying on his mother’s lessons about manners still guiding him. If he had decided not to come, he would have cancelled the car at least. WASP lesson number one: always be courteous to the hired help, mustn’t inconvenience the chauffeur.

Marissa is surprisingly friendly and welcoming – not a nervous breakdown in sight. Maybe I have the wrong idea about what’s wrong with her. The only other time I've seen her was at her father’s funeral and she was understandably frazzled on that occasion. She tells me that Justin's been preening in his bedroom for an hour and a half and I have a hard time not to feel smug about that. I have to remind myself that it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s doing it for me.

In the car, he's telling me about this party he went to last Saturday and how Kinnetik was the talk of the evening. I'm incredibly pleased about that, but at the back of my mind I find it amazing that we run in the same circles. It seems that escorts really go far these days. Of course, Justin will never be an ordinary escort, he's far too sophisticated for that.

At the new office, I have just enough time to show him around. As I do, I realize that somehow his opinion is important to me. And why should that be? I never needed anybody’s approval before and it was always freely given by others anyway, namely Mikey. But Justin never praises to be polite or to save my feelings, it's always well thought out and completely honest. If he hates it, he'll say so and therefore his approval has always counted for more.

He is lavish in his praise and I’m floating with pride until he makes a crack about me not being able to fuck in my office. He just can't let that go, can he? Why would he care anyway? We were never exclusive and we haven’t been together for a long time. But then again, why do I care about his clients? Because I do. I can’t work out why, but somehow I do. It bugs me that there are guys out there who have rights to him, or think they do. Nobody has rights to Justin.

I would never tell him my feelings about that though, just like I'd never tell him... ah, fuck it, why not? I decide to give him a comprehensive list of who exactly I definitely _don’t_ fuck any longer. He looks a bit stunned and just nods. And then I ask him to come and greet the guests with me and it isn’t until he answers that I realize that I haven’t thought that one through. He's right, of course, I can hardly introduce him as my partner because he isn’t and anything else would just look odd. But it smarts nevertheless that he dismisses my offer so easily. Time was when it would have made him incoherent with excitement and no practical thought would have entered into the equation. As it is, I’m glad that one of us has some foresight because I need this evening to go without the slightest hitch.

After a while, when everyone's been welcomed and I’ve made a little speech to thank everyone and to introduce Cynthia, I spot Justin with Callum Leland near the buffet. Again? Wasn’t he just talking to the guy the last time I looked, about twenty minutes ago? Or are they talking still? I go over there and manage to get Justin away easily. So now what? I haven’t really got any plans for him, other than separating him from the limey, who's far too familiar with him, but being the host has its advantages.

I get stopped constantly by people wanting to congratulate me and I take care to keep the conversations going. For a short while, I keep hold of Justin’s hand so that he doesn’t wander off. It seems to work. He doesn’t question where we're going and seems content to just stay by my side. Mission accomplished. I start to tentatively introduce him to some select few guests. Who says I have to label him at all? In this less formal situation, an exchange of names will do and I just add ‘the artist’ at the end of his, guiding the conservation towards art and enabling him to participate or even take over. Justin can always be relied upon to make witty conversation, especially when it comes to art.

When all the guests have left, Cynthia slumps very unladylike in one of the office chairs, which are scattered about. Our employees are a little more formal, because they don’t really know either one of us all that well yet. Ted looks incredibly pleased, knowing as well as the rest of us that the evening went exceedingly well. We're all pretty hyped and look forward to starting the real work. I say a few words of thanks and tell them to carry on partying if they like, as long as they turn up bright and early on Monday to start working in earnest.

In the car, Justin smiles at me. “So you dragged me away from Cal just to introduce me to people and drum up some business for me?” So he noticed.

“Huh?” Feigning ignorance.

“You told practically everyone that I have a show coming up. It was quite funny to see them pretend they’ve heard of me.” There's a slight pause, then: “Thank you.”

I lean over to give him a soft kiss on the lips. “You deserve it.”

He laughs. “You haven’t even seen my work yet.”

“Actually, I have. Hartcourt showed me the photos. I’ve already decided which ones I’m gonna buy, as soon as he puts a price tag on them. I’m pretty sure he'll buy some, too. He’s waited long enough. You wouldn’t believe the money he’s offered me and Lindsay for your paintings.”

“Really?” For the first time since I’ve met up with him again, he has that wide-eyed, almost child-like excitement about him that he used to have about a lot of things. It’s good to see.

“Where are we going?” he asks then, looking out of the window.

“Home.”

 

He's looking around my new apartment, obviously impressed. I only closed on it three weeks ago, but everything is more or less in place. The new furniture arrived last week, just after the decorators left. There are three rooms a few steps up from the living area and there are lots of glass partitions everywhere. It’s not quite me yet, but it was the best of the ones I could afford. The area is very up-market and, in time, I'll get used to having doors in my home.

I show him the guest room first, then the other room, which is completely empty for now. The bedroom comes last because I know we won’t move any further than that anyway. He takes a look into the en suite bathroom and then sits on the bed.

“I like it,” he says, smiling at me. ”It’s really amazing, actually.”

I put my tongue in my cheek as I advance towards him. “It is now.”

“Why now?” he asks and tries to look innocent. He knows exactly why.

“Because,” I say, pushing him backwards and follow to lay myself on top of him, “now that I have you in my bed, I can christen the place.” I kiss along his neck, up to just behind his ear.

He chuckles. “What happened? The decorators not hot enough?”

“They were hot enough. I just wanted to wait.” I lift up a bit and smooth his hair back. “This is my first night here.”

“Really?” he asks, in that tone that he always has when he's pleased, but doesn’t want to show it. It suits me because how could I possibly explain to him that the apartment's been finished for three days and I've waited for tonight to start living here? I can barely admit the reasons for that to myself and the way things are between us, I'd rather not have to explain it to him.

But I know that my eyes are way too gentle, just as is my voice, when I say: “Really.” He's just so beautiful and his eyes are so soft and deep. I’m just playing with his hair for a bit while we're staring into each others’ eyes until my skin starts to crawl with the soppiness of it all and I bend down to kiss him properly. Luckily, Justin always rises to the occasion, quite literally. His back arches as he's pressing himself against me and his head comes up to meet my kisses and his erection is hard against my hipbone.

“Fuck me,” he commands and I'm only too happy to oblige. I hope he meant all night because that's what he's getting.

 

I wake up when Justin's trying to disentangle himself from me. It's ten in the morning and Saturday. Where could he possibly be going? We only had about five hours sleep. I put my arm out to pin him to the bed without opening my eyes.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Why?”

“Uhm, because I live there?”

“Well, don’t live there then.”

Silence. It makes me open my eyes uneasily and I see him staring at me with a strange expression on his face. As soon as I look at him, he jerks his head around to look at the ceiling. Fuck! What have I done now? He isn’t ready for that. Hell, I’m not ready for that. I would be, if he were jumping up and down with glee about it. But a long discussion about the ins and outs and maybe even about whether it’s a good idea to begin with? Yeah, so not ready for that.

“You didn’t mean to say that,” he says quietly.

“No, you’re right. I’m well known for saying things I don’t mean just to make idle conversation.” I get up and go to the bathroom – anything to get away from this. No way am I going to tell him that I meant it if he’d only want it. If he doesn’t want it, it’s better if he thinks I was kidding. Why the fuck can I never read the signs properly? This is the second time I’ve asked him to move in when he has no intention of doing so. Although perhaps, he’s not too far off when he says I didn’t really mean to say it, at least not yet or not like that.

I turn on the water for the shower, when a thought occurs to me. When I come out of the bathroom, Justin's sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to get up.

“If I come out of the shower and you’ve disappeared on me again, Justin...” I say warningly.

He looks guilty, biting his bottom lip nervously, but he also looks genuinely upset. How can my offering him to move in be upsetting? Shouldn’t this domestic bliss stuff make him happy? I thought that's what he always wanted. Unless there are things I don’t know about. Like a secret drug habit or an income derived from criminal activities or... a boyfriend.

Now that I’ve thought about it, I can’t just ignore it. “Is there someone I should be aware of?” Because if there is, he can just fuck off. I’m not doing that again. Brian Kinney's no one’s dirty little secret and I won’t allow him to keep dirty little secrets from me either. This time we’re not hiding anything.

“Someone? No. There isn’t anyone else. Just a bunch of fuck buddies. But you have those, too, don’t you?”

I laugh. “I had a few in Pittsburgh. Nick was all right, but then he moved away and the ones after him were more hassle than they were worth. They always get clingy after a while and then you need to train a new one.”

He smiles wanly. “Yeah, tell me about it. I keep three of them to make sure I don’t hang out with any one of them too much. Rotation works.”

“If you say so. I find that ‘fuck off’ works best. I have them to save time. What’s your excuse?”

“Saves money on clubbing.”

“Justin, you make 400 dollars a night as an escort and you live rent-free, what could you possibly need that much money for?”

“I’m paying for Molly’s tuition. You've no idea how expensive ballet training is. PIFA was charging community college rates compared to the conservatory.”

That makes sense to me. It also explains why he hasn’t started paying me back for his education yet. Not that I want him to, but I know that, at some stage, he'll bring it up and insist on it. And speaking of escorts, another problem just popped into my head, but that will have to wait until later. If he has no intention of living with me, there are a lot of things I refuse to think about. No point. Let me just get over this feeling of frustration first without him noticing.

“So, why don’t you come shower with me, so that I can keep an eye on you until I’m finished?”

He smiles, picking up on my lighter tone. “I thought you’d never ask.”  

 

******

 

From the first shower fuck in the loft, that morning after our first night together, I haven't had a single shower by myself without thinking about Brian. Nine times out of ten, I jerk off to memories of shower sex, too, when I’m in there. Brian and I almost always showered together, either to save time – why fuck and then shower, when you can do both at the same time? – or because we were still horny after we’d already fucked. And yes, we always fuck when we're showering together because that's kind of the point. But there's also this.

He tilts my head back a little and pours shampoo on. His long fingers massage my scalp, sending shivers through my body. Then he turns my head into the spray to rinse and starts all over again with the conditioner. After that, he starts lathering my body with soap and he's very thorough about it, getting into all the nooks and crannies, taking his time. This is how he shows his love. He's caressing me with his hands, his whole body, when he can’t or won’t admit that’s what he’s doing. A drawn-out shower could always heal a lot of things between us.

The fuck is inevitable, wanted, _needed_ by the time he gets round to it. I support myself against the glass wall and push back against him with every thrust, until he finally yanks me back hard against him as we come together and his arms envelop me in the warm spray.

I've never had sex in the shower with anyone else. One time, Tom tried to get into the cubicle with me and I told him to fuck off in no uncertain terms, practically screaming at him. Afterwards, I apologized, mainly because it was his shower I'd been in, but I think he decided to stay clear of the nut-job after that. We parted ways soon after, when I stopped working at Leone’s. But, yeah, showers and Brian definitely go together.

When I come into the kitchen area, he's already made coffee and is smoking, sitting in one of the high chairs at the breakfast bar. I’m glad his kitchen has this, because it’s familiar, sitting side by side, drinking coffee, all that’s missing is the newspaper.

I feel hungry, but Brian’s place doesn’t have decent food at the best of times. It would be too much to expect any when this was his first night in the apartment. I wonder if it's coincidence. Something in the way he said it, makes me think that maybe he waited to share his first night here with me. But that’s just silly. That's something I would do, not Brian. He often gives words more significance just by the way he says them and the way he looks at me when he does. I always read too much into it and any time I ask for conformation he always denies it, giving me a look as if I need my head examined. I wonder if he would even admit to having asked me to move in if I asked him now, in the cold light of the day.

“There’s a diner at the corner if you’re hungry,” he says, having guessed that I’m wondering about food. Well, maybe it isn't such a terribly astounding guess.

I agree and ten minutes later, he ushers me into a little bistro down the road. A real diner would have been surprising in this area anyway and this is great, quiet, with little alcoves, very classy. Only Brian would call something like this a diner so casually. We choose one of the high tables in the corner, where I sit on one of the stools while he decides to stand. The food smells absolutely delicious.

To others, we must make an odd picture, me in my suit from last night, though minus the tie now, and Brian in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Somehow, he still manages to look more stylish than I do. I order warm croissants and he sticks with coffee. He never eats much in the morning.

“What is it you actually do for Marissa?” he asks. I’m glad he’s starting a conversation, because our silence isn't particularly comfortable. If he were any other guy, I'd have left straight after my shower or even before, but it’s Brian and I just want to be with him all the time, even when it's a little unnerving. This desire to be around him has kept me going many times in our relationship.

“I run a lot of errands. I stop her from rubbing holes into the furniture when her cleaning urges get too bad. And we go out every day for normal things, like shopping and walks. Some days are better than others. Sometimes she can’t get over the threshold. But recently she's been a lot better. Last week, we managed to go to the park. That was a major milestone for her.”

“How much of your time does that take up?”

“Just an hour or two a day.”

“What about not coming home at night?”

“What about it? She's all right alone in the house. She just can’t go out like ordinary people.”

“And you plan on being her life support for the rest of her life?”

“She's not mad or an invalid, Brian. And we're friends. She's funny and smart and has read every book under the sun. We paint together. I would probably still see her a lot even if I didn’t live there.” Shit, I wasn’t going to mention that. Now he'll get all defensive again because I’ve embarrassed him by not agreeing to moving in. _Well done, Taylor._

Brian's watching me, then lights another cigarette. I know how he operates. He’s distracting from the conversation and then he'll either find something to argue over or invent a reason why he has to leave or change the subject completely. He blows the smoke up above his head. That man can make even smoking look sexy.

“So, Marissa isn’t the reason you don’t want to move?”

 _Yeah, just like I though... wait a minute, what?_ Why does he only ever want to talk about things I’d rather not discuss?

“Eh, no. Or rather, not in the long run. I'd feel better if there was someone moving in with her if I moved out, but believe me, they're lining up for that gig. Rent-free accommodation is hard to come by.”

“And yet, here you are with two of them to choose from.” He’s got his tongue in his cheek, watching me.

I hate it when he’s unpredictable and... nice. I puts me on the defensive. It makes me want to get down on my knees, kiss his feet and then wrap my arms around his legs so that he can never leave – and give him a blowjob while I’m there.

I put my half-eaten croissant down and look at him. He holds my eyes for a while with an expression between determination and frustration, then he raises an eyebrow, prompting me to say something. What can I say? Marissa's only a small part of the problem, probably the part that has the easiest solution. But the other parts aren't so easy to get past or even to explain.

“Brian, we didn’t see each other for nearly four years. And since then we've only been together for six days.”  

“We met in June, Justin. That’s six months, not six days. And it’s not as if we hardly know each other.” His voice is now only barely repressing his anger. I’m not sure if I'm grateful we’re in a public place or should prepare myself for an embarrassing scene in front of an audience. Because when Brian has something to say, he doesn’t give a shit about who's listening in. The guy at the next table is already studiously staring at the newspaper in front of him.

“But we’ve only spent six days together in those six months. And if this doesn’t work out I've nowhere else to go.”

“Why? You planning on running off again?”

Now, that's just unfair. “It was a joint decision that I'd go to New York.”

“Well, I was under the impression that you'd come here, do your thing and then come back. Or at least keep in touch.”

“You’re the one who didn’t keep in touch. I was forever talking to your answering machine or your voicemail. And when I did talk to you, it was like talking to Ted, it was that impersonal.”

“You were in Pittsburgh to work on Rage with Mikey and you never came to see me. I didn’t even know you were coming.”

“Oh, I saw you all right. You were otherwise occupied.”

“With Nick? Yeah, Mikey told me you saw me. You know I would have told him to fuck off if you'd come to the loft.”

“He was a repeat, Brian. A regular thing. You never did that with anybody but me. What was I supposed to think?” I try to keep my voice down, although the bistro is fairly empty and the music, the clutter of dishes and the hissing of the coffee machines provide some privacy.

“That I was busy with work. All the time. I couldn’t go clubbing much. Nick saved time. He was convenient, that’s all. They all were. You should be able to relate. Whenever I came to visit, you were always at the fucking restaurant. You practically lived there.”

“You only came to visit me tw... “ I trail off. I _did_ work both times he visited, which means I worked _every_ time he visited. Maybe it did seem to him that I didn’t care whether he was here or not. He really isn't the type to go where he doesn’t feel wanted, or in his case: worshipped. Add to that his insecurities about my never wanting to come home and you end up with the perfect excuse for him to withdraw even further.

“I needed the money. I wasn’t making that up. I could barely make the rent. If I didn’t work the shifts they put me on, I would have lost my job. I needed that job to survive. Do you really think I wanted to waste time on waiting tables when you were in town? I lived for your visits.”

“I take things the way I find them,” he says coldly.

I hate that he's so calm when I’m getting upset. It always puts me in the wrong, even when I’m right. “You withdrew long before that.”

“I was giving you rope to do your own thing. Have fun. Grow up a bit.”

“I was twenty-two. I didn’t need to grow up. I needed your support.”

“How much more support than helping you go and fulfill your dreams did you need?”

“That wasn’t support. That was washing your hands off me. I needed you to not let go this time. Just this once.”  

“To whisper sweet nothings over the phone every night? To sit at home and cry over your photo? I’m not a dyke, Justin. That’s not me. You always knew that.”

“No one asked you to turn into a lovesick queen. But you know me, too. You knew that I needed you to be available. Emotionally and otherwise. Why do you always expect me to cater to your needs, but you never cater to mine?”

“I turned my whole life upside down for you. But it’s never enough for you, is it?” He finally raises his voice, just a little.

“I know how hard it was for you. I was there. And it was hard for me, too. But we got there in the end. All I was asking was for you not to take that away from me again.”

“At least you always knew where to find me. I had no idea where you were for two and a half years. So, fuck you, Justin, for putting this all on me.”

He turns and walks out of the bistro. The guy from the next table finally looks up, first at Brian’s back, then at me, but looks back down quickly when I glare at him. For a while, I wait for Brian to come back, knowing that he won’t because that just wouldn’t be Brian. He’s probably halfway to getting drunk by now or halfway into some guy. I realize that I’m lucky everything's already paid for because I forgot my wallet and don’t have a fucking dime on me.

I’m not putting it all on him. I made mistakes. I should have tried harder, persevered longer, been stronger. But when we parted, I was so convinced that he'd be there for me this time, that I fell off the ledge when he pushed me, before it occurred to me that I had to try and hang on. And this time there was nothing and no one at the bottom to catch me and help me back up.

I always had that before, people who would dust me off, say ‘there, there’ and give me a push in the right direction. In New York there was no one. The new people I met had no idea what Brian was like. They either wanted to fuck me or didn’t give a damn. And while I wasn’t opposed to the fucking as such, I felt incredibly lonely. Brian had everyone around him and even if he'd have balked at the idea that he needed them, sometimes it's enough that someone _knows_ you.

I realized almost straight away that New York was a huge mistake, but it was too late the minute I stepped out of the loft. I knew I could come back a success or not at all. So my goal was to become one as quickly as possible, but then I was working all the time to make ends meet. My portfolio was too small to interest anyone, if I could even get them to look at it. I had no space or money to paint. And Brian was mostly unavailable. I never really had a chance.

Marissa saved my life. Suddenly I had time and a studio. I worked less and I could paint and I wasn’t feeling so fucking alone anymore. It was too little, too late, but it was more than I had before and after mom died, my world shrank to just this life. I always knew it would end one day. I can’t live in that house forever, painting pictures that I don’t even attempt to show. But I feel safe there and if I move in with Brian and it doesn’t work out, then where will I go? Since mom died, all I wanted was to feel safe again somewhere, somehow. Everything else fell by the wayside.

And now Brian is in my life again and nothing's safe any longer, or calm, or dull. It scares me to death that all I want is be with him, no matter the consequences, just like I used to.

I button up my suit jacket and start on the long walk home, hoping that it won’t snow.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

**PART SEVEN**

My painting's for shit. I know that it is, but I keep painting over bits haphazardly because, if I start a new one, that'll be ruined, too. I think I’m just passing the time. It’s January now and I haven’t seen Brian for over three weeks. I keep wondering if he'll ever stop being angry with me for rejecting his offer. Over Christmas and New Year, I went to a lot of parties, hoping each time that he'd be there, but he never was. Logic tells me that he was either in Pittsburgh or Toronto. I feel lonely when I think about that, and a little jealous. That he has all our friends still and Gus as well, and I have nothing. And I feel jealous that they have him and wonder if I'll ever really fit in anywhere.

I spent Christmas Day taking Molly out to dinner and it was just as depressing as it sounds. This time of the year is always hard for us. The rest of the holidays I worked. People don’t want to be alone during this season, so they don’t mind paying for company.

I add some more black to the painting and look up when Marissa puts her head round the door.

“You have a visitor,” she says and withdraws immediately.

And then Brian walks in, closing the door carefully behind him, before he turns around and gives me a smile.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He comes in further and looks at the paintings leaning against the wall. Not knowing what to make of him being here, I dump my brush into the cleaning fluid and start wiping my hands on a cloth. For some reason, I’m expecting an argument, maybe because Brian doesn’t like losing and our last meeting would certainly count as a loss in his books. Sticking his neck out _and_ being rejected, yeah, definitely something that'll make him stew. Or maybe I’m just expecting it because that’s what we do nowadays, we argue. And I’m so tired already after too many sleepless nights.

“These aren't the ones you’re showing,” he says. I always forget that Frank Hartcourt seems to be his new bosom buddy nowadays. At least, he’s very informed about what's going on with my showing. I can’t decide whether I find that flattering or annoying.

“The gallery already took them away,” I say, as I walk over to the sink to wash out the brushes.

“Do you have any more?”

I gesture towards the storing area. “All the large ones in there are mine.”

I can hear him pull out the runners to look at the paintings, while I finish cleaning up. After taking the brushes to the drying rack, I take my shirt off so I can wash myself properly. I can’t imagine what he's doing here. Did he come to look at my work? In the middle of the day?

“What happened to this one? It’s for shit,” he says and I look up from soaping my arms to see him looking at the painting I was working on.

“Yeah,” I agree. “I keep caking more paint on, but it’s ruined. I’ll just throw it out.”

I dry my hands and pull my pants off so that I can change into the clean ones, but before I have a chance to, Brian's there, molding his body against my back and kissing my neck. His suit is rough against my naked skin and I angle my head to give him better access to my neck. His hands run up and down my chest, fingernails scraping lightly and deliciously over my skin. I've been wanting this since he came into the room.

Needing closer contact, I turn in his arms and put my hands on his neck to kiss him. I really hope I washed up properly because his suit looks very expensive and it would be a shame to get paint on it. Not that I give a shit about that at the moment and, anyway, there’s a simple solution for that. I start undoing his tie, but he takes hold of my hands and stops me.

“I don’t have much time,” he says quietly and starts undoing his pants.

I want to feel more of him and I feel a little vulnerable standing here in only my underwear when he's still fully dressed. It’s very arousing though. But I want to see his skin, feel it, lick it, kiss it, so I go for his tie again.

He pulls his shoulders back a bit, laughing. “What did I just say?” Then he removes it himself. “Let’s make sure you do as you’re told,” he says and his voice and his eyes ooze pure sex. He wraps the tie around my wrists and knots it. It's pretty loose, I could get out of it with some effort, but it makes me horny as hell. I moan and he kisses me again before turning me and pushing me over the sink. Not really able to hold on to the side of the sink, I grab the faucet with my tied hands to support myself. Brian pushes down my underwear and then uses his foot to spread my legs a little, not too much or it'll make our height difference too awkward. But we've done this hundreds of times and both of us know just how to position ourselves to make it work.

He pushes into me gently, but after that, it’s all hard and fast. I have a stray thought that hopefully Marissa listened carefully whenever I talked about Brian and knows not to come in. Then I really don’t think any longer, other than that this is always so fucking amazing. Every single time. No wonder, my seventeen-year-old perpetually horny self never doubted that we were meant for each other.

I come all over the pipe work under the sink when Brian bites gently into my shoulder. He carries on for another dozen strokes or so and then I can feel him pulsating inside me. I love that feeling, especially when I’ve just come and my body's all sensitive. His head rests on my shoulder for few moments before he pulls out gently. Dropping the tied off condom in the sink, he kisses my shoulder where he bit me.

I turn around, smiling and we kiss and then kiss again. He’s here. He took the first step by seeking me out and I’m ecstatic about that. It must mean that he's forgiven me. Maybe we can move on without making a fuss about what happened for once. There's no reason why we have to live together. We’ve been in this situation before, when I lived at Deb’s and later at Daphne’s. I’m sure, by now, he’s regretted his offer anyway and maybe he’s quite happy to continue as we were.

He smiles and takes the tie off me, smoothing it down between two of his fingers a few times before putting it back around his neck. Rubbing over my wrists gently, he checks them for damage. Only then does he do up his pants.

I find my underwear and my pants and get at least half-dressed. “How was your Christmas?”

“Intensely busy. I barely managed to get away for two days to see Gus. Remind me to never start a new company just before Christmas again.”

“How's everyone in Toronto?”

“The same. Busy. Nosy.”

He washes his hands and checks himself over in the mirror. “I’ve gotta run,” he says and I blink. He came just for the fuck? When we were together, that wasn't so unusual, but with the way things stand between us, I feel a little disappointed, almost insulted.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

I stare at his profile. Fucking fuck! This is the first time ever, that my work's getting in the way of my private life. Probably because until now I had no life to speak of. I don’t know what to say. My first instinct is to throw myself at his feet and beg his forgiveness. I really must get a grip on this guilt complex I have where Brian is concerned. Surely he doesn’t expect me to sit at home and wait until he decides to ask me out?

“There's this new restaurant that Kinnetik's doing the marketing for and it’s opening tomorrow night.”

Double fuck! “La Varenne?” I ask in a small voice and he smiles.

“The very one. You’ve heard of it.” He seems satisfied about that, as he should be since he’s done the advertising for it. But that’s not the reason I’ve heard of it. Shit, how the fuck am I going to tell him?

“Would you like to attend? With me?” he asks, still not looking at me, doing up his tie. Oh God, he’s asking me out on a date. That’s what he came for. Brian Kinney is asking me out on a date! Officially. After what happened last time we met. And I can’t fucking go! At least not with him.

“Brian... I have a client tomorrow night... who's taking me to La Varenne.”

He's not looking at me. He’s too busy straightening his tie and _not_ looking at me. “No problem.”

I hate myself, hate my job, my whole fucking life. “I'd much rather go with you.”

“It’s business,” he says. “It’s business for me, too. I’m there to see if everything’s worked out. So I see you there then.” He still hasn’t looked at me and he's almost by the door before he asks: “Who's the client? Callum Leland?”

“No. New client. At least new for me. Charles Farnsbrook.”

And then he looks at me for the first time since he’s asked me to go with him. “Of Farnsbrook, Carter & Saunders?”

I just nod.

He looks at the door, then out the window, away from me and finally back at me. “Justin,” he says and something in his voice makes me shiver. “Charles Farnsbrook has a reputation.”

“A reputation for what?”

“For liking them young... and black and blue.”

“They all like them young, Brian. And he’s been vetted. He's used the agency for some time. There were never any complaints.”

“He has money, Justin, a lot of it. He always manages to make accusations go away. He's... a sleaze... and dangerous.”

“I’ll be all right. We're going to be in a public place. There’s going to be people there. Hell, _you’ll_ be there.”

“Justin...” he says, just that one word, a little exasperatedly.

I’m not sure if I like that he's concerned about me or if I resent him for making me feel like a child again, being told the facts of life, what to do, not to cross the fucking road without looking both ways. I’ve been escorting for a long time. I can look after myself.

“He was at the Kinnetik opening,” I remind him.

“He’s a competitor. There were a lot of people there, who I'd walk the other way to avoid when I’m not working.”

“I _will_ be working. So I can’t walk the other way.” I soften my voice and smile, because he looks a little upset. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

He looks like he wants to say more, but then he just nods. “Later.”

For the rest of the day, I can’t stop thinking about it. I remember another time when Brian told me that someone was a sleaze and to be careful. That time I didn’t listen to him either and it almost had dire consequences. Maybe he's right. He and Farnsbrook are both in advertising and people always talk about their colleagues. It's conceivable, that he's heard rumors about this guy that Phil's never been privy to. I don’t really hang out with my own colleagues, so I can’t ask any of them.

But my mind keeps wandering from the issue at hand. What's really bothering me is that Brian asked me out and I had to say no. It broke my heart when I said it and it keeps breaking over and over again when I think about it. I feel terrible for him because I hurt him, but I also feel sorry for myself because I want to go with Brian. Even if it was Cal who booked my time, I'd still want to go with Brian. I'm thinking about how awful it'll be to be in the same room, wanting to be together and not being able to.

In the early hours of the morning, a thought occurs to me and as soon as it's late enough, I call Phil to ask him if he could put someone else with Farnsbrook. I lie a little, telling him that there's someone who wants to book me personally for tonight. So, I would have to pay Phil for the hours, but what does that matter as long as I can be with Brian and not lose my job?

“I can’t, Justin. Farnsbrook asked for you in person.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t know. He's usually with Gavin. But this time he asked for you. By name.”

“How does he even know me?” The only time he could have seen me was at the Kinnetik opening. I recognized him because I make it my business to read the society section in the papers. It helps with the job. But we were never introduced.

“He didn’t say. Gavin's pretty pissed about it as well. Farnsbrook usually books him once or twice a week. He’s practically his only customer. Is there a problem?”

I tell him about Brian and that I want to go with him. Of course, if Farnsbrook asked for me by name, canceling is out of the question, so is pretending to be sick. Either way, I wouldn't be able to attend with Brian tonight, which is my main objective. All in all, I prefer to be in the same room with him, even if I'm supposed to entertain somebody else. Brian is worth it even from a distance.

I ask Phil if Gavin ever complained about his client, adding that there are rumors about him. Apparently, Phil had some doubts in the beginning, but everything he heard was so vague that he couldn’t get it substantiated.

“Gavin seems to like him. He must pay well for the extras. You know what Gavin's like, anything for a price.”

Actually, I don’t know what Gavin's like. I can barely put a face to the name, but I leave it be. I'll see Brian tonight, that’s all that matters and maybe I can find an opportunity to let him know that I tried. Or even better, maybe I can manage to go home with him at the end of the night. In general, I find it discourteous to turn up with one guy and leave with another after my paid time is up, but with Brian I would definitely make an exception.

I dress with care, more for Brian’s sake than the client’s and within five minutes of sitting in the car with Charles Farnsbrook, I'm convinced that Brian's right. Farnsbrook gives me a list of how he expects me to behave throughout the evening. I am to stay on his left side at all times, I'm not to speak to anyone or look at anyone else and if I want to go to the restroom, I'm to ask his permission.

“What if someone speaks to me?”

“Why would they? Nobody speaks to the decorations.”

Now, that sounds eerily familiar, but it gets worse.

“And you will call me sir.”

I have trouble keeping a straight face. Is he for real? But the look he gives me tells me that he is. I should ask the driver to stop the car and get out right now, but if I cancel this late in the day, I'll certainly lose my job and Molly’s school fees are due soon.

He puts his hand on my crotch and smiles, shark-like, with too much teeth. “I’ll take care of you later.”

I remove his hand forcefully. “That isn’t part of the service.”

He just laughs.

It turns out to be one of the most bizarre evenings I've ever had. Brian is already there when we arrive, but other than a curt nod, he pointedly ignores both of us. Farnsbrook’s grin is very satisfied and I don’t like it. It seems to me that I'm a pawn in some game I'm not aware of. During the cocktail hour, I follow him like a lapdog, listening to his conversations and keeping my head down. It'll pass, less than three hours left.

We get seated at a table and the food's really excellent. I can’t see Brian and I daren’t look around too obviously. It’s not that I'm afraid of Farnsbrook. We're at a restaurant and what is he going to do to me here? But it's immensely embarrassing. How am I ever going to convince Brian that this isn't how it usually goes down? This must confirm all his previous convictions about what I do. How do I always get myself into these situations and why is he always right in the end? On top of that, Farnsbrook makes me look like a rent-boy to everyone else, too. There's no way I’m leaving here with this guy.

Luckily, I’m not required to make conversation because he really likes to hear himself talk. I just nod and smile in all the right places and so far I've avoided calling him sir, as I haven’t really spoken at all.

“You really don’t listen very well, do you, boy?” he says threateningly.

I'm a little confused. I’ve done nothing _but_ listen to him drone on. I don’t think he can tell that my mind's wandered mostly.

“I saw you look at Kinney a few times. I look forward to teaching you proper obedience later.”

Yeah, that's so not going to happen. This guy's so far removed from reality it's almost amusing. How does Gavin put up with this shit on a regular basis?

“Yes, sir,” I say with dripping sarcasm and he smiles. Damn, better not play into his delusions any further.

The food is not only good, but the courses are nicely drawn out, taking up most of the agreed time, but at half past ten, Farnsbrook gets up and motions me to follow. I shrug and dawdle a little. Only half an hour left. I have to somehow pass that time while we're still here.

In the lobby, he talks to the owner for a bit and then gets our coats. We're alone now.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To my place. I wanna get there before the agency time runs out. I don’t want to waste the extra money I’m paying you on the ride there.”

Yeah, he really knows how to make a guy feel special.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. There’s only twenty minutes left. By the time we get to your place, I'll only have to turn back anyway. Because I don’t do extras.”

He laughs. “Yeah, that’s what they all say. I pay double the going rate, didn’t Gavin tell you? I'm looking forward to marking you, boy.”

 _Marking_ me? Is he out of his mind? I take a step back. “There isn’t enough money in the world to make me go anywhere with you.”

“Okay, I get it. I’ll pay triple what Kinney pays you. Now come on.” His hand closes viselike around my biceps and I'm suddenly aware of how tall he is, almost as tall as Brian. My attempt to shake him off has no effect and I feel angry that he doesn’t seem to listen to a word I say.

“Brian doesn’t pay me. He doesn’t have to. I would pay _him_.” Another flash of déjà vu, but I’m too preoccupied to analyze it just now. I dig my heels in and I still hope that I can get out of this without making a scene. I’m not frightened, just embarrassed.

Farnsbrook seems perturbed for the first time and then I hear someone call my name, not loudly, just to call my attention. Suddenly, Brian's there, strolling up to us.

“Are you ready to go home?” he says, as if we always had plans to go home together and he hasn’t ignored me all evening.

I smile, suddenly relieved. I thought that I wanted to try and avoid letting Brian see what a stupid situation I've got myself into this time, but now that he’s here, I’m just grateful that this is over. Because it is.

“Would you mind unhanding Justin?” he says, looking pointedly at the hand around my arm.

“I have him tonight, Kinney. You'll have to wait your turn.”

“It’s always my turn,” he says lazily and steps closer, slightly in front of me, using his body to force Farnsbrook back a bit just by invading his personal space. Brian has superior height and he's a lot fitter, although his whole posture and expression alone would make him a threat to be reckoned with, even if neither was the case. Finally, the grip on my arm loosens.

I put a hand on Brian’s arm and he immediately steps back, taking me with him. I don’t think there was ever any chance that this would spill into violence, but with the things Farnsbrook said, maybe I'm wrong about that.

“You will lose your job over this, boy,” he says coldly.

“I doubt it. I’ll let Phil know that you were twenty minutes short on your allotted time and make sure you get compensated. Have a nice night. Sir.”

He glares at both of us, then turns and leaves the restaurant. Brian follows him with his eyes, before walking the same way. He is angry. I can feel it radiating off him so intensely he's almost shaking. At the door, he stops and looks out through the glass onto the street for a while. He's trying to get control of his emotions, I know it. I walk over there and gently put a hand on his back, just the one hand, in case his anger is focused on me.

I can see him close his eyes for a single moment and then he slings his arm around my shoulder.

“Ready to go home?”

Am I ever.

   

******

 

From the moment we started work on the Monday after the launch party, it never let up. We were just in time for the spring campaigns, including Valentine’s Day, and we hit the ground running. Cynthia insisted on giving the staff time off between Christmas and New Year, so we worked with a skeleton crew of volunteers for those days on top of everything else.

Mikey complained that I wouldn’t be at his mother’s Christmas party and that it would be pitiful because Ted and Blake were going on a Caribbean holiday and Emmett always has to work during the holidays nowadays. In the end, I sent tickets for him and Ben to go to Toronto. I included Debbie and Carl as well because otherwise I'd never hear the end of it. Of course, that only meant that when I got there, there they all were. Even with the bigger house, things were extremely crammed.

I relocated to a hotel, which meant that, at night, I could let off steam in the clubs. That was pretty much what I did in New York as well. I don’t know anybody yet and to pick up tricks in bars and restaurants you have to actually have the time to sit around in them. In the clubs, everything's a lot faster, a bit of grinding on the dance floor, a raunchy suggestion and then it’s off to the backroom. Very efficient. I’m all for efficiency.

Once I went to a party with Frank Hartcourt, but left when Justin turned up with Callum Leland in tow – or, I suppose, it was the other way round. Luckily he didn’t see me and Hartcourt had disappeared somewhere and didn’t notice me leaving. Justin’s escorting bothers me. I’m not jealous, I’m really not, but it’s not safe, no matter what he says.

Being busy suits me. I don’t have to think about what happened after the Kinnetik launch. Mainly, I'm angry about that, angry at myself for making a fool of myself. I showed my hand to Justin when he's still playing his own cards close to his chest. It's like role reversal, although it isn't completely unprecedented between us. I did have to propose to him twice, after all. But it’s not me. I read people and moods for a living and I'm very good at it, that's what makes me so successful in business. But with Justin, I’m clueless. I think he wants one thing, I give to him and he refuses, even when it’s what he said he wanted.

Okay, so he never actually said that he wants to get back together, but he acts like it. Or doesn’t he? I no longer know. What I do know is that I want him to stop selling his time to gross old fags and that I want him around more, preferably a lot more. Maybe even all the time. Okay, definitely all the time, because otherwise I wouldn’t have asked him move in. Did I really do that? Again? What the fuck was I thinking?

When it comes closer to La Varenne’s opening night, I realize that it's quite possible that he'll be there – with someone else. That's not something I want to put myself through again. For a while, I try to weigh my anger and embarrassment against how I'll feel if I see Justin escorting some other guy or maybe even Callum fucking Leland. I contemplate hiring him again, but he would probably bite my head off for that, so I'll have to ask him. But my ego is laughing hysterically at first and then tells me that it really can’t take another rejection and to just forget it. By the time I realize I have to go through with it, he's already otherwise engaged. Of course. I left it way too late.

And then he drops the bombshell. Charles Farnsbrook? Is he mad? Is that Cartrell guy mad? I thought he vetted these people. He certainly put me through my paces that time, but then again, I’m not as rich or influential as Farnsbrook. Farnsbrook is old money and that still counts for something. To be fair, the rumors about him aren't really common knowledge, just gossip passed on amongst fags.

Justin is apologetic about turning me down, but I don’t need his pity. I don’t need anybody’s pity. However, he doesn’t back down about his appointment and I feel a strange sense of déjà vu when I try to warn him without outright begging him not to go. I hate feeling helpless, knowing that he won’t listen to me, he never did. Justin's headstrong and, in general, he can look after himself, I’m just not sure if he’s prepared for this or realizes how serious it is.

I’m there before all the guests arrive because I’m more part of the work force than patron. Farnsbrook grins at me when they arrive and I wonder if he has targeted Justin deliberately to get back at me. He was at the Kinnetik launch and... did I really hold hands with Justin there, however briefly? Farnsbrook and I have been rivals for a long time and don't like each other much. I think he’s a ruthless, arrogant asshole and he probably thinks the same of me. Plus, despite his independent wealth, his agency is small enough to have to worry about Kinnetik becoming a new player in town.

Justin's behaving strangely, not really talking to anyone or even looking at them. If I were his client, I'd want my money back if my companion was that dull. I get a table where I can watch them without being seen myself and the food's very good. Justin isn't really saying much during the dinner either. After a while, they get up and walk towards the entrance. What the fuck? He’s not really leaving with that guy, is he? After all I said?

I'm tempted to just let him get on with it. If he doesn’t want to listen to me, then he'll have to fend for himself. It’s his funeral. Yeah, that thought lasts about thirty seconds and then I’m out of my seat and rushing after them. I’m more worried about having to convince Justin how much of a bad idea this is, than of having to confront Farnsbrook, but when I get to the entrance, the bastard has his hand on Justin’s arm and Justin is telling him to fuck off – in only marginally more polite terms. I rush forward because there's no way in hell that I will ever, _ever_ be too far away again to stop Justin from getting hurt.

I’m working on pure adrenaline and even though I know that Justin may be upset with me coming to the rescue, I won't stand idly by and watch. That just isn't an option. Not now, not ever. I’m not planning on starting a fight, but I’m tall and just my presence is much more intimidating than Justin can ever hope to be. It’s no reflection on his ability to defend himself. He can, quite well actually. The pink posse was good for something after all.

Farnsbrook backs down like the cowardly bully he is and I watch him leave. Then I walk over to the glass door, partly to make sure he doesn’t double back and partly to compose myself. The thought that Justin might have got hurt again has me almost shaking with relief that this time he didn’t. What is it that makes the lad such a magnet for trouble?

After a while, I can feel his hand on my back and when I don’t pull away, he moves a little closer. I just want to take him home to make sure that, at least for tonight, he's safe. Actually I _need_ to know that he's safe. I’m ready to beg him to come home with me and if that doesn’t work, I'll have to set up camp outside his front door. I sling my arm around his shoulder and start with my lowest bid: “Ready to go home?” And what do you know, he agrees.

 

We're quiet in the cab, but he takes my hand tentatively and entwines our fingers. I let him. He’s here, he’s safe, he can do what he wants with me for now. I don’t let go of him until we're safely inside the apartment. It’s not as if I think that anything will happen now, it’s just that the fear I felt was so intense and so fucking familiar that I need to reassure myself that it’s over and everything's fine.

The feeling of adrenaline pulsing through my veins doesn’t actually abate until after the third fuck and by then it’s just pure exhaustion. Justin's stuck against me by come and sweat, his finger drawing patterns on my skin, while his head's resting on my shoulder.

“I tried to get out of it, you know,” he says quietly. “I so wanted to go with you.”

“It’s actually quite simple. Just say, ‘I don’t want to do this’ and then you don’t have to.”

“Yes, but then I won’t have a job and no money and Molly will have to leave the conservatory.”

“This way you get yourself killed and then she won’t have a brother and would still have to leave the conservatory.”

“He wasn’t gonna kill me, Brian. He might have turned a little angry, but there was no way I was leaving with him.”

“And what about the next one? Who might not be so obvious? Who might take you somewhere before you know what he is?”

He shakes his head. I can feel the movement and his hair is tickling my skin in the process. “This coming from the guy who goes with perfect strangers for a fuck?”

“Not the same.”

“Because you’re big and strong and I’m small and weak?”

“No, because when you’re tricking you go with your gut feeling and you get out if it doesn’t feel right. With your clients, your sense of duty overrides your gut feeling. Be honest, if he wasn’t a client, at what point would you have said ‘I’m outta here’ tonight?”

He chuckles. “Uhm, when he told me I have to ask his permission to piss and have to call him sir?”

 _Oh God, I so hope he's joking. He must be joking. Please, tell me he’s joking._ He’s not and he actually finds it amusing. The little twat. I light up a cigarette to distract myself. This situation is going to kill me. I've always let him find his own way. A few warnings were as far as I was willing to interfere, partly because he had to learn to make his own decisions, partly because he’s a stubborn little shit who resents any interference, but partly also because I didn’t want to admit that I cared and was afraid for him.

And while he’s still stubborn and I’m still not his daddy, I could try a different tactic this time, one that would never have occurred to me the other times. I consider putting my hands on either side of his face and looking deep into his eyes until his gaze goes soft, and then saying: “Please, stop being an escort. For me. Because you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

I imagine him going all gooey and tearful and giving me exactly what I want. It could work, but what if it doesn’t? It’s my only trump card and if I play it and he says ‘no’, I'll have to throw him out. My ego couldn’t take it. It probably wouldn’t work anyway. It might have done when he was go-go dancing because he was still worshipping me then, but even during the pink posse days he'd have been angry rather than compliant. No, he really isn’t that easy to manipulate any longer.

“Justin...” I start and then I stall. This is shaping up to be one of our famous impasses.

“It’s not always like this,” he says, when I don’t continue. “This is the first time in three years that I had any trouble and even tonight I was never in any danger. I need the money, Brian. Nothing else is paying enough.” He leans up and supports his head with his hand so he can look down on me. “I'd give it up otherwise... for you.”

“Don’t do me any favors.” Fuck, did I really just say that? What the hell is wrong with me? I hate feeling so helpless and not being able to control his actions. It’s making me angry. This is one mistake I’m having a hard time watching him make, especially when there's an easy solution. It’s only money after all.

He doesn’t even flinch. “It wouldn’t be a favor. Escorting is mostly boring. The only one who ever does anything interesting with me, is Cal. The rest of the time, it’s just listening to boring talk. And I know it freaks you out. Don’t deny it. I’m just saying I won’t be sorry when it’s over, either.”

What he doesn’t mention is when or how he thinks this will be over, how he sees his life changing in a way that will make it no longer necessary. I just want him to stop, stop doing it, stop talking about it, stop looking at me as if I’m an overprotective lesbian. Well, that last one is easily fixed. I pull him down on top of me.

 

In the morning, after our shower together, we sit at the breakfast bar, drinking coffee from the Starbucks at the corner, reading the paper and eating bagels fresh from the bakery.  

“You know I was going to buy some of your paintings at your show, for Kinnetik?”

He looks up and nods. “You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. You've no idea how many comments I get for your work in Pittsburgh. But that’s not the point. I’ve been thinking... I could buy some of your other paintings instead. Cut out the middle man. You have enough at your studio and I like quite a few of them. Then you could also sell all your paintings at the show and make even more money.”

“Or it might just mean that none of the paintings at my show will sell,” he says nonchalantly and turns back to his section of the paper.

“Don’t be so negative. Hartcourt will buy some for sure and he’s pricing them at five-figure sums. He wouldn’t do that if he wasn’t convinced they'll sell.”

He looks up again. “Five-figures? How come you know how much he'll charge?”

“I had a meeting with him last week. He’s not quite decided on all of them, but it'll be around that. I want five for the office. I give you eighty thousand for them.”

He starts coughing, almost spits out his latte, and runs over to do something rather disgusting in the sink. Then he turns around to glare at me for laughing. I just snicker some more.

“You’re nuts, Brian. Or rather, you’re just looking for a way to give me money,” he says, as he sits back down. True enough, but not the point. “Anyway, I think you’re making this up.”

“You know that painting with the green on the left and the orange thing on the right that shouldn’t really work together but does...? Hartcourt's putting it up for 19,000.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Not really.”

“Oh my fucking God. He’s nuts.”

“Maybe. But he knows what he’s doing when it comes to art.”

“So if I were to sell all twenty paintings, I would get over 200K?”

“Try 250. Minus the commission, of course.”

He looks a little stunned and I decide that now is a good time to spring my suggestion. “I want to buy now. The office looks weird without artwork and your show's not for another ten weeks. And I also want you to have money now, so you can give up this fucking escort business.” Maybe honesty will work.

He laughs happily. “You never give up, do you?” A moment later, he’s come over and is climbing into my lap. That only works on these high chairs because I’m close to the wall and leaning against it to support both of us. I think even Justin and I won't manage to fuck in this chair.

“Is it working?”

“Yeah, it is. Wanna come to my house later to pick the paintings you want?”

Well, that was surprisingly easy. I feel my body relax with relief. “Yeah, I do. You wanna give your boss a call?”

“Later. First, I wanna ravish you.”

“Yeah, right. Let me do the ravishing.” I get up and lift him up with me, which is pretty easy as he's practically sitting on my hips already, but he's heavy and I decide to unload him onto the dining table.

He spreads his arms and legs wide. “Ravish away, Mr. Kinney.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

**PART EIGHT**

This is actually the first time that I’m going to be at Brian’s apartment when I know he’s not there. In the beginning, he swung by my home every night after work, stayed for half an hour or so, pretending to be visiting, and then extended an invitation to come home with him. A couple of times, that invitation consisted of no more than a long, hot stare in the middle of a conversation, which made me grab a change of clothes in a hurry, while he called for a cab. After a week of that, we dispensed with the pretense and now he just sends me a message when he leaves work and I jump into his cab when it gets to my door.

I haven’t worked as an escort for four weeks now. Phil has suspended, rather than sacked me, which suits me just fine, since I’m not convinced that my paintings will sell at the show and I might be right back where I was the very next day. Three years ago, nobody even looked at my stuff and now it’s suddenly supposed to be all the rage? I’m not buying it. Although I have to admit it would be hard to go back to escorting because, to be honest, Charles Farnsbrook creeped me out a little and that was probably the reason I took Brian up on his offer without too much resistance. The whole episode forced me to accept some truths that I’m trying my hardest to ignore at the moment.

I’m spending very little money. Most of what Brian gave me for my paintings went into Molly’s education fund. She’ll be finishing next summer, but I’m anticipating having to support her for a little while longer afterwards. She won’t become the prima ballerina at the Bolshoi overnight. Still, once there are no more school fees to pay, everything will be a lot easier.

When Brian called me today to say that he was stuck in a meeting on the other side of town for maybe another hour or two and could I make my own way to his apartment, I just took the subway. I’m always telling him that there's no need to pick me up. I have my own key, which he gave me one Sunday when I was going out for the papers. When I tried to give it back to him after I got back, he just glared at me until I put it on my key ring. And despite the fact that he'd already asked me to move in, I felt just as excited about that as I did when he gave me a key to the loft when I was seventeen.

I’m surprised when I hear noises coming from the guest bathroom and then a voice.

“You’re back earl...”

There's something intrinsically wrong about a woman coming out of Brian’s bathroom, talking as if she feels right at home and Brian’s just popped out for some cigarettes. The fact that the woman is Melanie is just weirdness personified. She's wearing sweatpants and a loose t-shirt with no shoes and she's staring at me as if she’s seeing a ghost. She’s not the only one.

“Justin? Oh my God, Justin, I didn’t know it was you. I thought Brian was coming back early.” She comes over and gives me a strong hug. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Over her shoulder, I see Gus coming out of the guest room in a rush, but stopping short when he sees me. “Oh, hey, Justin. Is my dad with you?”

I just shake my head mutely and Melanie also turns to look at him in surprise. “You _remember_ Justin?”

Yeah, that. I was just about to ask that and maybe a dozen other questions as well.

“Not really,” he shrugs. “He’s in that photo on the sideboard. And he painted that weird thing that mom took to the gallery, didn’t he? Dad said he'd be here. Do you play Playstation?”

“Uhm, yes, I've been known to.”

“Cool. Wanna play two players?”

“In a minute. Let me just talk to your mom a little.”

He looks at me like a kid who knows that when adults say ‘in a minute’, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they'll be finished any time soon. Looking a little deflated, he just ambles back into the bedroom.

“What are doing here?” I finally ask. “Where's Lindsay? And JR?”

“In Toronto. Linz has to work and JR has school. Well, so does Gus, but we thought we take the opportunity to let him visit with his dad. Seemed stupid to come to New York and leave Gus at home. He would have screamed blue murder. It’s only for four days. I’m at a conference for the next couple of days. Brian picked us up at the airport earlier, but then he had to rush off to an emergency meeting.”

“He's extremely busy,” I say, jumping to his defense automatically.

“I know he is,” she says and it doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic. She smiles and adds: “He wouldn’t miss seeing Gus if there was any other way.”

Okay, at this rate, I'll stop being astounded sometime around next Christmas. It seems that Melanie and Brian have made their peace at last. The best evidence for that is that she's staying at his place without Lindsay there to stop them from killing each other.

“Your turn,” she says with a smile.

“Uhm, Brian and I met last June. We’ve been seeing more of each other recently.” Keep it simple. I don’t know how much Brian has told anybody and how much he wants them to know. He could have prepped me a bit. Hell, he could have at least told me they were going to be here.

“Typical Kinney,” she says, laughing. “Michael said he saw you when he was with us at Christmas. But Brian just sat there and never said a word. How have you been? Are you all right? You look great. We tried to get in touch with you, but our emails came back as undelivered and you changed your cell number.”

“Yeah, I had to,” I mumble. “I’m fine. I’ll see what Gus is doing, okay?”

Gus just pushes the controller at me and asks me if I know this game. It’s some kind of shooting thing and they're all the same, aren’t they? Apparently not, because he kicks my ass big time the first three rounds, before I get the hang of it and turn from a victim into an opponent. Melanie brings coffee for me and a soda for Gus and settles on the bed next to me.

“So you knew Justin would be here?” she asks Gus.

“Dad said.”

“When?”

“Last week. He said if he has to work while we’re here, Justin might want to hang out with me. If not he'll take me to the office. He said he wasn’t sure Justin would still be around.”

And there goes all my life force. Gus squeals with delight as he gleefully stomps on my corpse and I feel a bit like my avatar at the moment. What does he mean, I might not be around any longer? Where the fuck would I be? But I know that I can’t ask Gus. He probably doesn’t know and it wouldn’t be fair to drag him into this.

I thought we were doing all right. Over the last few weeks, I’ve only slept in my own bed three times, when Brian was away on a business trip. I’ve even started spending my weekends here. I keep clothes in his wardrobe and food in the kitchen. We go out. We stay in. We fuck like we’re both on Viagra. Why would he think that I might stop being around? Unless... unless he’s thinking about making sure that I’m no longer around. I hoped that I had more time than this.

Gus is starting to slaughter me again and he’s not happy about it. He’s shooting me dirty looks because he probably senses that I’m not really paying attention any longer, then starts to explain the finer points of the game in rapid fire speech. Melanie is weirdly quiet and relaxed like I’ve never seen her before. Maybe she’s been into Brian’s stash. I wish I could.

After another twenty minutes or so, I feel completely stifled. If I don’t get out of here to re-group and have a minute to think about what Gus has revealed so unwittingly, I think I’m gonna scream.

“Uhm, I think I’ll go and get some food,” I say, getting up.

“Don’t you want to wait for Brian?”

“Uhm, no, I’ll just get us all something.”

I leave the room in a hurry, but when I’m by the front door, putting my shoes on, Melanie's there. “Is there a problem?”

“What? No. Of course not.”

“It’s just... when Linz and I didn’t hear from you anymore, we were both wondering if we’d done something wrong. Did we upset you in any way?”

Fucking lesbians! Everyone so far, from Michael to Ted to Brian, has let it slide. Brian mentioned my disappearing a couple of times when he was riled up, but there was never a ‘ _what the hell did you do that for?'_ Trust women to drag it out into the open, to ask straight out and to look incredibly upset while doing it.

I sigh and sag against the wall a little. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It was me, not you.”

She smiles, just a little. “Well, I can safely say I never had this kind of conversation with a _guy_ before.” But she's Melanie and Melanie is really just like Brian when she wants something, only softer. Somewhat. “So what happened? Because I get the impression that you’re not talking to me and now you’re running off somewhere. It doesn’t really look like ‘it’s not you’ to me. It looks very much like ‘it _is_ you’ to me.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Well, that’s just a euphemism for ‘fuck off and mind your own business’, isn’t it? So, I’m asking you again – because Linz will kill me if I tell her I saw you and didn’t find out – what the fuck did we do that was so terrible that you cut all contact with us? I think we have a right to know. Because we have no clue.”

Of course, they never really did anything to me. For a while, when I was feeling sorry for myself, I resented Lindsay because I blamed her for my being in New York, as if I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t interfered. Deep down I always knew it had nothing to do with her. Just because she suggested that I should come here, doesn't mean that Brian and I had to actually go through with it. That was our own decision. And then, of course, Lindsay got that job at the gallery straight away and I could no longer stand her constant questioning about my progress. She made it look so easy to become an instant success.

“It’s just...“ _Yeah, Taylor, try and get out of that one without looking like a total moron._ And then Brian comes to the rescue by walking in the door.

Or not.

“Going somewhere, Sunshine?” His voice is dripping with sarcasm and I get a ‘Sunshine’ as well. Never a good sign.

“Just getting some food,” I mumble.

“I see.” He walks past me and says, “Hey,” to Melanie before putting his briefcase on the desk and slipping his shoes off. Melanie just nods at him and is still glaring at me. “I sense I’m not the focus of this pissing contest for a change,” Brian quips.

Gus is drawn by his father’s voice and comes barreling out of the bedroom to give him a hug and request a better opponent for his game. “Let’s eat first,” Brian says. “Justin, will you do the honors while I get changed?”

I give Melanie a wide berth to get to the take-out menus in the kitchen and after some short discussion, we let Gus decide and so, pizza it is. Melanie's almost as good at making me feel uncomfortable without saying a word as Brian is.

“I wasn’t with Brian anymore,” I say finally.

“Since when has that ever made a difference?” She makes it sound as if Brian and I break up and make up all the time. “I thought we were friends in our own right.”

“We were. We _are_.”

“Just not the kind of friends you ever want to talk to again.”

“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t really talk to anyone anymore.”

“Yeah, I know. That makes it so much better. I know you and Michael had a falling out, but you stopped talking to us not long after you got here. Before you sold Rage. We sent you emails and you never answered. And then one day, you'd disappeared and nobody knew where you were. We were worried sick about you.”

I shoot a glance towards the bedroom, where Brian is taking an awful long time to get changed, unless he's taking a shower.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” I can hear how weak and pathetic that sounds as I'm saying it, but what can I say? From their viewpoint what I did was unwarranted, but at the time I couldn’t cope and even now I would prefer not to have my nose rubbed in it. But since I’m with Brian again now, I suppose I can no longer avoid it. Failure is so much easier to bear if you don’t have to parade it in front of everyone.

This time Brian does come to my aid by joining us, now clad in a t-shirt and jeans. He looks between us, no doubt picking up on the tension and decides to ignore it. Gus has come out of his room and is regaling his dad about the games he’s been playing. To my astonishment, Brian seems to know exactly what he’s talking about. Since when does Brian play computer games? The answer is quite simple: since his son's interested in them.

When the food arrives, we have an uncomfortable meal. At least, I'm uncomfortable. Brian tells Melanie about Kinnetik, information I already have and, of course, he's phenomenally successful and rich beyond, maybe not his own, but most people’s dreams. Melanie talks about Lindsay first, about how well she’s doing at the gallery and that she's now taken over as manager of the other two Dubois Galleries in Toronto as well. Melanie herself has started her own law firm with a colleague and they've become very successful gay rights lawyers. All this information is for my benefit because I’m sure Brian already knows.

“So what have you been up to, Justin?” she asks finally.

What the hell am I supposed to say? _'I waited tables for two years after I got here and then I worked as an escort. I tried to get my art shown, but nobody was interested so I gave up on that and now I only paint for fun?'_ They expected me to become bigger than all of them and then all their careers took off while mine stalled at the starting post. Hell, even Emmett's a successful businessman now. At New Year’s, somebody actually asked me about him, when I mentioned that I come from Pittsburgh. How successful do you have to be, for some guy in New York to be interested in your catering business when you trade in Pittsburgh of all places?

“I paint still,” I say finally. Looking up, I can see Mel and Brian exchange a look. I thought I’d never see the day when these two seem more comfortable with each other than with me. I feel like I’m the second child at the table, only not quite so indulged.

“Justin has a show coming up at the end of next month,” Brian says and he sounds casual about it, less of a proud parent and more of ‘this is no more than I expected all along’. It makes me feel a little better.

“Really? That’s wonderful. Which gallery? I know Lindsay will ask.”

“Hartcourt’s,” I say.

Melanie looks a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m really not up on my art galleries. Is it a big one?”

I shrug.

“Huge,” Brian says. “One of the best. And it’s a solo show.”

“That’s great. Hang on. Isn’t Hartcourt that guy that came to our house to buy that painting you gave us?”

“You should have sold it,” Gus pipes up. “It was lame.”

“Gus,” she says, even more embarrassed now.

“What? It’s just blobs of paint. I can do that.”

I smile for the first time. At least Gus doesn’t treat me like I’m a kid or fragile somehow. “You wanna have a go tomorrow?” I ask him. “We could go to my studio and you can try it out.”

“Maybe for a little while,” he says. He’s interested, but not completely committed, in case his dad has something better planned. And with that, thankfully, this interminable dinner and conversation is finally over.

We all clear the table and I take great care to follow Gus and Brian into the guest room immediately to watch them play games, rather than risk another conversation with Melanie. But I needn’t have worried because she says she has to look over her speech. She's _speaking_ at the conference, not just attending? Oh God, I want to go home and hide and never have to come out and face any of them again.

The thing is, I'm used to Brian being successful, he always was, even when I met him. Everyone else was just getting by and making do. Now, everyone's incredibly successful. Ted's apparently now so well off that he's bank-rolling his lover’s dream of running his own clinic. Even Michael has a successful comic book under his belt, as well as having to move his store to bigger premises. I wouldn’t be surprised if both Gus and JR turn out to be some kind of child prodigies.     

I, on the other hand, have nothing. When I moved here, I tried so hard to become a success, mainly so that I could go back home to Brian, but it never happened. Maybe part of the problem was that I didn’t really want it for the right reasons. I wanted it so that I could say, ’I’ve done it, now I’m going home’. Maybe that made me kind of a fraud. It wasn't my art I had a problem with – painting was always, and still is, an all-consuming passion for me – it was turning my art into money. It wasn’t important enough to me. I wasn’t hungry enough. Frankly, I hated it.

Then I lost Brian. I knew almost from day one that we were heading that way. For a while there, I thought if I could be successful quickly enough, I could salvage and repair what we had left, but when I realized I'd lost him for good, nothing was important anymore. What was the point of becoming a famous artist, when it didn’t mean I could go back to Brian? All it meant was that I had to deal with people like Simon Caswell and every other pretentious twerp who had any influence in the art world. Fame would have been great if I could share it with Brian, but it would mean nothing to me on its own.

So, I stopped trying so hard. It became only a matter of surviving and I could do that as a waiter as much as an artist, better, judging by the disinterest my paintings generated. Then I met Marissa and I could suddenly survive _and_ paint and that seemed enough. After mom died, things spun out of control. I needed big money and being an escort gave me that. I withdrew into my little world, where I could pay for Molly and paint for myself.

What I could never do, was look anybody from my previous life in the eye and admit that I'd failed so miserably, and worse, that I no longer even cared. It was better to break all contact than do that. When I met Brian again, I was embarrassed. I know he must be disappointed in me. He never says anything, but I know that we're living on borrowed time. He can never accept me as an equal partner now and I can’t accept anything less.

 

******

 

Gus breaks into a run towards me as soon as he comes out of the gate, talking away before he’s even quite reached me and giving me a long hug. When Melanie gets to us, she smiles and she looks so fucking tired. She and Lindsay have been incredibly busy for a long time, with Lindsay getting the gallery job almost as soon as they arrived in Toronto and Melanie studying nearly nonstop for two years until she could practice law in Canada.

Ever since then, they've been working flat out, both of them. On top of that, Gus has a father who works round the clock and can only manage one weekend out of six to visit and Michael cried off visiting for nearly two years when Ben was sick. The only time the munchers get a rest is when I bring both kids down to Pittsburgh during the Easter and summer vacations. And sometimes Deb will go up for a week or so.

For children who spend a lot of time in after-school care, both Gus and JR are extremely well adjusted. Mel and Linz must be doing something right. The whole family is always exhausted but happy. When I tell them that I have an unforeseen meeting in the afternoon, Gus just shrugs as if he never expected anything else. I promise myself that, under no circumstances, will I be working during the next three days.

When I have a break during the meeting, I call Justin to ask him to come to my place. I haven’t told him about Mel and Gus yet, because he reacts strangely to the old gang. He only spoke to Mikey for ten, fifteen minutes or so, when he saw him at the symposium. The same happened with Ted at the Kinnetik launch. I also told him a couple of times that Deb would really like to hear from him, but he always says he'll call her and then doesn’t. Quite frankly, I’m not sure if he'll even turn up if I tell him that we have guests.

When I get home, Justin's in full flight mode. He and Mel are glaring at each other and the little shit is just about to run off somewhere. Without really thinking about it, I call him on it. At least, he has the decency to look caught out. While I’m getting dressed, I can hear them talking in the kitchen. Mel's on high form, dishing out her unique brand of sarcasm. I’ve got to admit, I like it. Maybe someone else will get through to him, but she only ends up with a typical Justin apology with no explanation attached to it. And people say I’m closed off.

To be honest, I'm still waiting for the old Justin to return, the one who chatted all the time, who had friends everywhere, who was hopeful, unafraid and undaunted. I see flashes of him, which gives me hope that he may still emerge someday. Because this new Justin, who's so reticent and defensive and defeatist? Not really an improvement on the old one.

I can’t understand why he's not more excited about his show. Surely, it's what he always wanted, isn’t it? I know that he had a few knockbacks before, so he's understandably cautious, but he must realize that it’s a slam dunk. At least, I'm pinning my hopes on it, such as they are.

When Melanie asks him how he's doing, he doesn’t even mention the show. _'I paint still_ ’? What the fuck kind of an answer is that? Maybe he doesn’t want to mention the escort business, but there are other aspects of his life he could be talking about. So I tell her about his show and he still doesn’t look very happy although he smiles at me, slightly. Fuck that! Even if he’s not proud, I am on his behalf. This should have happened for him a long time ago.

After dinner, he loiters on the bed, while Gus and I are doing some serious gaming. It seems to me like he’s avoiding Melanie. No great surprise there.

Gus must have practiced one hell of a lot because I never had to concentrate this hard before to beat him or maybe I’m not as focused as I'd like to think.

Around eleven, Melanie appears to say she's going to bed now. I tell her to give us a call after the conference tomorrow and we can all meet up for dinner somewhere. She kisses Gus and bids us a good night. Not a word about Gus’s bedtime or how inappropriate the game is for his age. Being successful has certainly made both, her and Lindsay, less uptight and taken a lot of pressure off Gus and me. He's beginning to flake now and we, or rather I, decide to call a night.

“Do you want me to go?” Justin asks, when Gus is safely tucked in.

“Why?”

“I thought with Mel and Gus here... “ He trails off, not really explaining what it is that he’s thinking.

“I doubt that either one of them will want to sleep in my bed.”

He smiles and makes his way to the bedroom. When I get there, after I've switched off all the lights and set the alarm, he's lying naked on the bed, stroking himself as he watches me undress. So, he got over his discomfort of having guests in the apartment quickly enough and I’m not complaining. But if he thinks he’s fooling me, he’s very much mistaken. Eventually, he will have to talk.

Using sex as a distraction is new for Justin. For me, it’s an old hat. I used sex that way for years, first to distract myself, then later to distract him. He used to be the one who always wanted to talk and I was always the one who wanted to fuck instead. I still want to fuck pretty much all the time when he’s around, but I also know what he's doing and, just as I had to, he will eventually realize that it won’t work forever.

Since Justin has started coming round every night, he’s more or less the only one I fuck. It’s incidental. I have no time for anything else and the only people I meet, apart from him, are clients, employees and business associates and none of them qualify any longer. The last time I had my dick in someone else’s ass was three weeks ago when I was in Chicago for three days. I have no idea what he’s doing. I know he has a handful of friends, half of them fuck buddies, but whether he still uses them as such I can’t tell. It’s not an issue.

I've worked hard over the last five years to launch Kinnetik NY. I will not let it fail now through not putting my all into it. If it means that Justin and I are almost monogamous by default, then so be it. It doesn’t mean anything. I have no expectations of him and I’m not promising anything. And besides, sex with Justin is _never_ boring, in fact, if anything, it’s the most satisfying. There's something to be said for knowing somebody’s body inside out and for that somebody to know my body just as well. When he wants to, he can make me come faster than I would ever have thought possible or he can draw it out for as long as he fucking well pleases. Definitely no boredom involved.

Justin's uninhibited, has been from day one. It's always been fun to introduce him to new things, to watch his desire overcome any initial wariness, to see him take to the most outrageous kinks like a duck to water. We've hit some boundaries over time and he's always let me know when he doesn’t like something, but never without trying it out first. It’s all good. There are some kinks I’m not particularly keen on either, though I’m usually willing to indulge him at least once. And then there are some that neither one of us has any desire to even try.

The one thing we disagreed on for the longest time is what we’re doing now, the post-coital cuddling. I used to allow it, even when it made me uncomfortable, because I told myself it wasn’t really cuddling, just foreplay to the next fuck and if we fell asleep in each other’s arms, then that was accidental because we'd meant to fuck again, just didn’t get around to it. Nowadays I can admit that this is part of the attraction. Not that I'd tell him that, but since when have I ever had to tell him anything? What I miss is his chatter that used to accompany this step of the proceedings. That happens only occasionally now. But maybe I can remedy that today.

“Did you have an argument with Mel?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“So you weren’t in the process of running off when I got in?”

“I resent that. I don’t run off. I was getting food.”

I let that one slide because I can’t prove that he’s lying and he'll just keep on denying it. Maybe he even believes it to be true. “You hardly spoke to Mel all evening.”

“I was surprised to see her. You could have warned me.”

“I didn’t realize Mel and Gus warranted a warning. I thought you were friends.”

“I haven’t seen them for five years.”

“You hadn’t seen me for five years either and jumped straight back into bed with me.”

“I don’t think straight applies to what we were doing by any stretch of the imagination,” he says huskily.

I taught him too well. He's learned to deflect almost as well as I can, but it’s very difficult to bullshit the master bullshitter. I swat his ass and he sighs encouragingly. Not tonight, Sunshine.

“What _is_ your issue with the munchers, Justin?”

“I don’t have an issue. We haven’t kept in contact and it’s not easy to get back on the same terms, is all.”

“Yeah, with you making such an effort and all,” I say sarcastically and I can feel him tense. He's breathing slowly for a while before answering.

“They were always more your friends than mine.”

“Justin, there were times – lots of times – when you saw more of the munchers and Gus than I did. You were always babysitting, always going to galleries with Linz, always working on issues with Mel. I think that argument really doesn’t wash.”

He's quiet for a while, then he plays his trump card. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.”

There are three possibilities. One, I shut up and everything will be fine. Two, I don’t shut up and he'll start blowing me. Or three, I won’t shut up and he'll start an argument and leave. Yep, I really taught him all too well.

“Won’t work this time. You never wanna talk about anything anymore.” I grab his hand which is wandering towards my cock and hold him lightly by the wrist. “Just tell me what the fuck's going on with you.”

“Nothing's going on with me. I thought everything was fine.” He pulls his wrist free and moves to lie on his back, putting a little space between us.

“Everything _is_ fine. As long as I ignore the fact that you never talk about anything personal anymore, never ask anything, never make demands.”

“I should think that suits you just fine.”

“I proposed to you. Do you think I did that just so that I can have a permanent fuck buddy?” I sit up and light a cigarette.

“Yeah, well, you took that back pretty quickly, didn’t you?”

“What the fuck? Who said ‘oh but now you’re not the Brian I know anymore’?” I sing-song, then stop because I don’t want him to blow his top, and say more seriously, “You said we don’t need rings and vows.”

“Because I thought we had something even more permanent. Only that didn’t last very long, did it? You took that back, too. And now you’re doing it again.” He's so incredibly calm, it’s infuriating. I long for the days when he'd jump out of bed to lecture and argue from a superior position, all riled up and flushed. Now I’m the one who's anything but composed.

“What? What the fuck are you talking about now?”

He sits up and I know it’s just a pre-cursor to leaving.

“You told Gus I might not be around much longer.” And why the hell is that statement not accompanied by a screaming tantrum?

I take a deep breath. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t want to assume that you'll be around all the time. If you wanted to do that, you’d move in, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m here every night. What more do you want?”

I just look at him. He holds my gaze, his eyebrows raised in question until he realizes that I already gave him the answer. He sighs. “You know I can’t do that. It’s not feasible. Why isn’t what we have enough?”

I could give him lots of reasons, each one more pathetic than the next and there was a time when that would have worked. It won’t now. And I've opened myself enough for one night. No need to carry on with the bloodletting, it will only weaken the patient, not cure him.

“And this is exactly the reason I said it. Because you’re not committed to this in any way. You don’t want to move in. You don’t want to talk. You haven’t even given up that damned job for good. You’re holding back all the time. I’ll be damned if I promise Gus something you're not going to deliver. At the moment we're just glorified fuck buddies.”

“Well, it’s good to know where I stand.” He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, starting to get dressed.

“That’s it, Sunshine. Run away. Again.”

Finally, his answer comes out a little heatedly. “I'm not running away. I don’t want to be here right now, so I'm going home. Don’t make me sound like a pre-schooler just because you don’t like my decisions.”

I can just about stop myself from giving the obvious answer to that one. I clamp my lips together and watch him silently.

“I will always be little Justin to all of you,” he says, calmer now. “You were all grown-ups when I met you and you always treated me like a child. It got even worse when I was bashed. I'll always be inferior now. I can’t even get my fucking paintings sold without your help.” He's getting increasingly frustrated and the way he's struggling to get his t-shirt untangled would be comical if he wasn’t so upset.

I want to shake some sense into him or, as I can’t do that, I want to take him into my arms and comfort him. But I know that neither one of those options would work.

“Justin.” I put my hand on his still naked back, but he arches forward, pulling away, just a fraction.

“Justin.”

Finally, he stops and puts his shirt down to stare at the floor in silence. His back is still turned to me, but he’s listening at least.

“Every visitor who's even remotely interested in art has been asking about your paintings at the offices in Pittsburgh since they were put up. It’s not just Frank Hartcourt. So, maybe I made you sound more mysterious because, really, what was I supposed to say about you? But I never, not once, said anything unless they asked me first. This is all you. I had nothing to do with it.”

No reaction, but he’s not trying to leave either, so maybe it’s sinking in a little.

“Lindsay had a lot of offers for your painting at the gallery. She says it’s bringing in visitors all by itself. She would tell you if you'd speak to her.”

He’s twisting his t-shirt this way and that, completely ruining it. Watching him, I wince. It’s Dolce & Gabbana. I should know, I bought it for him. “You wanna come back to bed?”

“I don’t wanna talk anymore.”

“Okay.”

When he's naked again, he settles himself back against me. I’m not quite sure how fruitful this conversation was, but at least I got an inkling of what’s bothering him. Lack of confidence was never a problem for him before. It takes a lot to knock Justin down, like a baseball bat, but maybe five years of persistent rejection will do that to you, too.

“So you wanna fuck instead?”

Justin laughs and it’s good to hear.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

**PART NINE**

Mel had to take an early flight this morning because she has to go into work for a court case in the afternoon and Gus couldn’t stay for the weekend because he has try-outs tomorrow for an ice hockey team he wants to join. I wonder if Brian realizes that it's unlikely that his son's going to turn out gay. You can’t get much more butch than ice hockey.

When I arrive home, after Brian and I dropped Mel and Gus at the airport, I find a guest in our kitchen. “Hi,” I say to Alex, who's nursing a coffee and reading the paper, looking like he’s feeling very much at home. “Where’s Rissa?”

“Still asleep.” He smiles, wiggling his coffee mug to ask me if I want one. Shouldn’t that be the other way round? After all, I’m the one who lives here.

“You stayed over?” I ask, pouring one for myself and sitting down opposite him at the breakfast bar.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

That doesn’t exactly make me feel any better since all the other times he's stayed over, it was in my bed. He’d better not be implying that.

“I slept in the guest room. Jeez, Justin, could you be any less welcoming?”

I’m trying to remember that I like Alex. Of all my fuck buddies, he’s been the most constant because I do like him. He's originally from Denver and is studying architecture in his third year. We met when he worked at Leone’s for his spring break and we hit it off immediately. We were fucking for a while, then he got himself a boyfriend and we became friends. That’s been pretty much the pattern ever since: fuck buddies when he’s boyfriend-less, friends when he has someone. Except for his latest one, who insists that Alex won’t have anything to do with me anymore. Some people really don’t understand the fuck buddy concept.

“So what happened?” I ask, a little friendlier.

“Mondy threw me out yesterday.”

“Why?” Not that I think it’s any great loss. What can you expect from a guy whose name is Raymond but goes by ‘Mondy’, just to be different? But I feel generous after three days and nights in Brian’s company and having fun with Gus. The kid can be exhausting, but he's great fun and he even has some appreciation for painting now, after spending a morning in my studio. He still thinks my paintings are lame, though. He prefers Marissa’s landscapes.

“Oh, same old, same old.”

“Which is?”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

Actually, he doesn’t. I've been ignoring it for a long time, but I'm aware that he's far more attached to me than is good for him. I guess, I’m always hoping that the next boyfriend will cure him of that. I know very few people here that I actually like, so losing him would really make an unwelcome dent in my social life. I'd have to start hanging out with people again whom I only semi-like. Plus, I would genuinely miss him.

“He thinks you prefer drawing straight lines on a piece of paper to him?” I throw out, because that was the reason the last boyfriend gave when he broke up with him, that he took his studies more seriously than him. Can’t even remember that guy’s name, only that he was so uptight he made Kerry, my first roommate, look like a stoner.

“No, Justin, he thinks I’m in love with you.” Alex is watching me now, gauging my reaction. I hope there isn’t one because this is a conversation I so don’t want to have. Shit. What do I do now?

“Yeah, well, coming here after he’s thrown you out, isn’t gonna make him change his mind, is it?” I discard the rest of my coffee and rinse the mug, before putting it in the dishwasher. I’m getting good at avoiding conversations.

Or not.

“Well, he would be right, wouldn’t he?”

I straighten up and turn to look at him. For a while, neither one of us says anything. Then I decide to answer him without actually saying the words. “I’m going up to paint.”

I think if I slapped him, he couldn’t look more hurt. How do I always get myself into these situations? The answer is probably that, much as I try, I could never be like Brian. I can trick and not think twice about the guy, because everybody knows the score on that one. But with my fuck buddies, I always end up becoming too friendly. I think I just like to have a connection with someone. That works fine if the other guy doesn’t fall for me, but if he does, there's always a huge mess in the end.

I know it’s my own fault. I like Alex and I want to be friends with him, but the fucking came first and now it’s getting in the way. When guys become attached to me, I always feel guilty, as if I’ve been leading them on. I, of all people, should know that saying ‘ _I don’t do boyfriends_ ’ is really no deterrent at all. And I hate having to be hard and cold to get rid of them. It makes me feel like a shit, probably because I am. We don’t all think that being considered an asshole is something to be cultivated, so we can hide behind it.

I’m almost at the door, when his next words make me stop in my tracks. “Marissa asked me to stay a while, maybe move in.”

Now, I’m seething. Yes, this is Marissa’s house and she can do as she pleases, but I know she wouldn’t have asked him unless he somehow gave her the impression that this is what I want, too. She wouldn’t make a decision like that without consulting me. I feel very protective of Marissa and the idea that he’s playing her makes me rage.

Somewhere underneath that thought, I realize that I’m mostly angry about the fact that I feel trapped in my own home now. If Alex wants to pursue me, he just found a surefire way to make it impossible for me to escape.

“I’ll talk to her about it later,” I say and try to make it sound unconcerned. Then an idea strikes me. “It would have certain advantages though, since I’m never here at night anymore.”

“You’re tricking again?”

“Actually, no. I’m staying with Brian at night now.”

“Don’t tell me you have a boyfriend.” His voice is still half-amused, but there's doubt creeping in.

I just smile and watch his face fall. Damn, this isn’t nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be. It’s just making me feel unkind and that's just not me. I go back and sit down again.

“Brian's the guy I lived with in Pittsburgh. He’s just moved to New York and we’ve hooked up again.”

“I thought you said you never wanted to see him again, and vice versa?”

I shrug, then take a deep breath. “Alex, if you’re moving in here, hoping you and I will end up together or even just be fuck buddies again, I have to tell you that it'll never happen. Even without Brian in the picture... let’s just say, Brian will always be in the picture, even if I never see him again.”

“You said, you don’t want a relationship.”

God, how I hate it when people throw my own words back in my face. “And you took that to heart and never contemplated one with me? Get real, the fact that you’re here shows that you didn’t believe me anyway. I said that to let you know that you and I can never be serious. And Brian's the reason for that. It’s him or no one. Always has been.”

He starts to say something, two or three times, but stays silent in the end, lowering his eyes.

“I realize you need a place to stay,” I say softly. I hate this. I hate hurting him. “Marissa likes you and I know you like her. If you want to live here, that’s fine with me. In fact, it would be good for me because I wouldn’t have to worry about her so much. But there are two things you have to remember. One: if you're moving in here, hoping to be with me, forget it. It’s not gonna happen. I don’t need a fuck buddy, not with Brian around. And even when he’s no longer around, it won’t be you any longer. Now that things are out in the open, it would never work. And two, and this is the main point: if you ever, _ever_ hurt Marissa, I will hunt you down and make you regret it.” 

“I would never do that. You know I like her.”

Yes, I know. That’s the reason he's the only one of my friends and fuck buddies whom I don’t mind spending time in my home. Well, I didn’t until today.

“Good.”

“And I could go back to being fuck buddies. No problem.”

“But I couldn’t. I'd be leading you on. I don’t want to do that. I had a boyfriend once, for a few weeks and even though he turned out to be a lying sack of shit in the end, really, I was lying the whole time as well because I was still in love with Brian. When Brian and I split up, I will never do that to anybody again. And, believe me, while I’m with Brian, there's no need for anybody else, ever. So, think about it, if you want to live here on those terms and it’s alright with Rissa, be my guest. But I can’t be any clearer about what's going to happen. Or not going to happen in this case.”

Alex nods a few times. “I’ll think about it.” And that's the reason why I like him so much. He's sensible and honest, even with himself sometimes, which hardly any of us ever achieve. I want to hug him and comfort him, but that wouldn’t really help my case much in this instance, so in the end I just go upstairs and paint.

 

Marissa joins me two hours later. She asks about my ‘stepson’ and I just give her a look. She met Gus on Wednesday and took a liking to him. I really don’t have the heart to tell her that the last thing Gus needs is another woman in his life. I always thought that it’s a shame Marissa doesn’t have kids. She would have made a great mother. But with her condition, she doesn’t really have many chances to meet anybody, especially when the only people her roommate brings home, are much younger and predominantly gay.

“You told Alex he could stay?” I ask after a while, trying not to make it sound like an accusation. It's her house after all.

“Yes. He came round just after you left yesterday. He seemed pretty distraught. Raymond threw him out and he needed somewhere to stay.”

“So, is this gonna be permanent?”

“It’s a trial. He can’t get back into dorms until after the summer. We’ll see how it goes. I like him. He’s like you, only without the ditzy humor. I think it could work.”

Until after the summer? That’s over half a year! I watch her setting up her canvas on the other easel. Marissa paints watercolors and I think she's pretty good, if a little pedestrian. She looks up when she senses me watching her.

“I thought it would suit you,” she said.

“Is that what Alex told you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. I thought it would suit _you._ ” Seeing me look at her uncomprehendingly, she elaborates. “It'll give you the freedom to live your own life, Justin.”

I have a momentary feeling of panic. “Are you throwing me out?” 

“Maybe I should, but I won’t.”

“I’m not moving in with Brian. I told you that.”

“And I told you that I think your argument is flawed. If he doesn’t care, why should you?”

“He always wanted to move to New York. As long as I’ve known him, this has been his dream. I’m not fucking it up for him.”

She looks at me over her easel. Her pictures are small-scale enough for her to be able to do that. When she looks at me like that, I always feel like a child, it’s so full of indulgence and exasperation. It makes me miss Mom more and be grateful at the same time that Rissa has taken me under her wings. People always think that she gets the better deal out of our relationship because I appear to be chained to the house, but they’re so fucking wrong. When Mom died, I would have crumbled, if it hadn’t been for Marissa. And she likes Molly, too.

“Justin,” she says, then pauses. “Remember when you told me about Brian? How he always makes decisions for everyone and then pushes people into them? You’re doing exactly the same to him.”

“Not the same.”

She laughs. “Of course not. It never is when _you’re_ doing it. That’s the nature of these things.”

Now, if Brian said that to me or laughed at me like that, I'd hit the roof. Marissa can do it without even getting me angry.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He doesn’t strike me as the type who says things he doesn’t mean. Especially when he’s laying himself open like that.”

“He was half asleep.”

She looks dubious.

“He was! He was half asleep and he didn’t really mean to say it. He won’t ask again.” I decide to stop this conversation by going behind my easel, which obscures me from her view.

“Justin.” Marissa's come over and stands to the side of me. “I know you want to believe that because it makes you feel better about saying no, but if I were Brian, I'd _never_ mention it again. You can’t expect him to beg you to move in. The man has his pride. You wouldn’t ask again if the roles were reversed, so don’t hold your breath for him to do it again. He made you an offer and you threw it back in his face. You’re lucky he’s hasn’t thrown you out. Believe me, Justin, this is a make or break point, whether you like it or not. And it will only get worse the longer you leave it.”

“I can’t do that to him.”

“But you can hurt him by refusing without any real explanation? How's that better?”

I shrug and start on my painting, which is our usual signal to give the other person some peace and quiet. Marissa watches me for a while, then pats my back and goes back to her own easel. I know she has a point, she always does. But I haven’t been with Brian for far too many years and I anticipate never being with him again when this is over, so I'm hoping to string this out for as long as I can, to savor it and enjoy it and store every single moment, so that it can sustain me for the rest of my life. And I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help it. Brian is like a drug habit I can’t kick, no matter how hard I try.

I know Brian still thinks this is about money and selling paintings, and I wish to God it was, because then it wouldn’t be so irrevocably fucked up. There'd be a chance to fix it. With this, there isn’t. It’s too late and the damage is done. But if I talk to Brian about it, we'll be finished and, much as I know it’s the right thing to do, I can’t bring myself to point out the real problem until he works it out for himself. And he will work it out all too soon.

 

******

 

Justin's not answering his cellphone. Yesterday, he told me that one of his friends has moved in with Marissa and him. With my head still at work, I was only half paying attention, but when I think about it, it seems to me, that this new situation has great potential. It should stop him from worrying so much about the woman and give him more independence. But it’s clear by now, that Justin is in no way pleased about the situation. He was talking about it nonstop last night.

I don’t get it. This new guy's a friend of his. And Marissa, although she has problems, doesn’t strike me as vulnerable in any way. What is Justin suspecting this guy of doing? From the outside, his own deal with Marissa – free rent _and_ a free studio – looks a lot like taking advantage. Now, I know that Justin really cares about her – he frets over her enough – so why can’t he just give this Alex guy the benefit of the doubt?

So far, I haven't met any of Justin’s friends. They're all students and artists and ordinarily I’d have no desire to hang out with a bunch of almost-twinks. I didn’t relish the student lifestyle even when I was one – too grungy for me – and artists are usually incredibly pretentious, Justin and Lindsay excepted. But I think I might check this Alex out. Maybe I can find some pointers to what kind of life Justin’s carved out for himself, because that's still a mystery to me.

From a purely selfish point of view, I reason that if there's someone else in the house, Justin will have to be there less. At least, that’s what I thought, but he left sometime this afternoon and it’s ten now and he's still not back. In recent weeks, he's always spent his weekends here, so why does he feel the need to go home now, when Marissa's no longer alone? Something's not right.

Before she left, Melanie told me that she thinks Justin's suffering from depression and should see someone. Yeah, have fun telling him that. After what he said to me a couple of days ago, it certainly won’t be me. How can I possibly say to him: _'you know how you feel inferior to your old friends, well, guess what, they also think you’re a nut job’?_  Besides, therapy's bullshit. You pay someone hundreds of dollars to tell them that your childhood was crap and when you’re finished, your childhood was still crap. I say, if you don’t like your life, pull yourself together, stop whining and change it. And if you can’t, there's always alcohol, drugs and fucking. Works for me. Melanie looked at me a little incredulously when I told her that. After a while she said quietly: “Maybe it’s not his childhood he should talk about, maybe it’s the bashing.” At which point, the conversation came to an abrupt ending.

I call him for the second time and it goes straight to voicemail. That’s not an unusual occurrence either, if he’s painting. I've been to the gym and worked on some accounts that were bothering me enough to take them home with me over the weekend. Now, I want to relax, but I can’t do that if I’m sitting here like the little woman waiting for the hubby to return home. So I leave him a message telling him that he can meet me at Torso if he feels so inclined and then I get ready to go out.

Clubbing in New York is very different from clubbing in Pittsburgh. Here, I can’t rely on my reputation to pull a guy, it’s all on my own merit, although I've noticed that since I had that clubbing spree over Christmas, the offers have been pouring in and the guys are a lot more persistent, even when Justin's with me. Just goes to show that I’ve still got it.

I have a few drinks at the bar, check out a few guys and tell myself that I'm not waiting for Justin to turn up. After an hour or so, I take some lucky guy to the backroom and then, an hour later, I find someone else to do it again.

Justin and I have no rules at the moment, other than common consideration. I wouldn’t take a guy home, in case Justin's there, and I wouldn’t fuck anyone when I’m out with him. But otherwise, we're both free to do what we like. I can fuck as many guys as I want to, just as he doesn’t have to spend his Saturday nights at my place or even tell me if he intends to show up at some stage. He's made it clear enough that my apartment is not the place where he's living.

Nevertheless, when I get home, he’s there, asleep on the couch. I look down at him and he looks so fucking young still. It’s not fair, he’s twelve years younger anyway, but he also doesn’t seem to age much. Fucker. I put my hand on his stomach where his shirt has ridden up a little and stroke his naked skin. He mumbles something in his sleep and pushes my hand away. Smiling, I bend down and kiss him and get a vehement push against my chest for my troubles. “Don’t do that, Alex.”

He jerks into a sitting position so violently that I have to move back quickly not to get head-butted. For a moment he looks disoriented, then he smiles at me. “Sorry, Brian. I didn’t know it was you. Please continue.”

I’m standing up now. “Who did you think I was? Alex maybe?”

“Yeah. He’s driving me nuts.”

“By kissing you? What exactly is he to you?”

“I told you. He’s my fuck buddy. _Was_ my a fuck buddy.”

“No. You told me he was your _friend_.”

“Yeah, that, too.”

I nod and make my way to the bedroom and into the shower. It’s seems prudent to remove myself from the situation for a little while, otherwise I might say something that I'll live to regret. Standing under the spray, I’m trying to stay calm. I know I had way too much to drink to start an argument now and have any chance of winning it. And probably way too much _not_ to start an argument. To be honest, I have really no reason to complain. There are no rules and he's free to do what he wants, I made that very clear. But still, moving a fuck buddy into his home is a lot to swallow and ignore.

Justin's on the bed and naked except for his underwear when I come out of the shower, somewhat calmer now.

“I don’t want him to be there,” he says. “We’ve been fuck buddies on and off, whenever he doesn’t have a boyfriend. He wants it to be more and now he’s in my house and I can’t get rid of him.”

“What do _you_ want?”

“I want him out of my house and I want him to stop looking at me as if I’ve done something wrong. I told him from the beginning that it was just fucking.”

“That’s why you should never mix friends and fucking. What does Marissa say?”

“That it would be good for me to feel less responsible for her.”

Well, I must say I agree with her there. That woman is pleasantly level-headed. “But you disagree?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“Well, that makes it so much clearer.” I drop naked onto the bed beside him.

“I resent that he’s moved in. It’s awkward. Today he took Marissa shopping. That's _my_ job. It’s like having a stalker, only this one wants to _be_ me instead of just wanting to be _with_ me. He’s taking over my whole life.”

“Well, not your whole life. I haven’t met him yet. Is he worth checking out?”

He turns to glare at me.

“What? You can live with your fuck buddy, but I can’t sample the goods?”

“No, you fucking can’t. I swear to you, Brian, if you fuck him, I’ll...”

“Relax. One guy with stalker qualities is enough for me.”

He softens and smiles as if I said something that he would consider sweet. “I don’t live with him, Brian. He moved in without my consent and I’ll get rid of him if it’s the last thing I’ll do.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to get rid of him? First of all, it’s not your house, it’s Marissa’s and if she wants him there, she can do what she likes. Secondly, there's enough room in that place for all of you. And thirdly, you won’t get rid of him by being there more. If you spend less time there, he’ll soon get the message.”

“My studio's there.”

“Well, you can make yourself a studio in the spare room if you want. Just ignore the fold-out sofa and the desk in there.”

He’s staring at me now, but I know he’s not going to take the bait this time either. “I can’t lose my place at Marissa’s.”

“Why the fuck not? Or is it just too convenient to have a fuck buddy in the house?”

“Don’t be stupid! I just said I don’t want that.”

“Well, why don’t you enlighten me why the hell it's so important for you to live there?”

“Because...” he trails off, predictably.

“Yeah, just like I thought. So, why don’t you fuck off _home_ and let me get some sleep?”

I pull at the sheets, but he’s lying on them so they don’t move much and, to my surprise, he's not getting up to leave. So I leave the sheets and just pull the duvet over myself, turning my back on him. After a while, I feel him scooting closer until his breath is on my back, even though he’s not touching yet.

“It’s my sanctuary, Brian,” he says so quietly I have to strain to hear it. “I feel safe there. After mom died it was the only place I felt safe. You don’t know what that’s like. You would rather have died than gone back to your parents, but for me, my mom was always my safety net. Somewhere I would always be welcome, no matter what happened, no matter what stupid shit I’ve done. I know it’s not the same with Marissa and I know it’s temporary, but it _feels_ safe.”

Actually, he’s wrong about that. I do know what it feels like because I know that no matter how much I fuck up, if it comes to the worst, Debbie will take me in. In fact, whenever I do fuck up, she’s always at her most motherly. She calls me on all my shit and always has done, but when it hits the fan, she’s the one to hug me and smear lipstick kisses on my cheek or, failing that, give me a slap up the back of my head. I don’t even want to imagine losing that, no matter how much I gripe about her sometimes.

I turn and he’s looking so small and vulnerable, I take him into my arms. “She’s letting you go, Justin, not throwing you out. There's a difference.” Not that he's ever been any good at spotting that difference.

I remember a time when he thought I was his sanctuary and I hated it. How hard I tried to disillusion him of that idea. Looks like I succeeded somewhere along the line, only now I kind of wish I hadn’t.

“It feels the same,” he says quietly. “It always feels the same.”

“Well, it shouldn’t. When your mom let you go after... the bashing, it was all right. It was what you needed. Sometimes, we need a push in the right direction.”

He nods and after a while he starts kissing my chest and running his hands over my side. “I’m glad you didn’t bring anybody home. I didn’t want to go to bed because I didn’t know what company I'd wake up to.”

“I don’t do that anymore. Next time just go to bed. I can assure you it’ll be only me who wakes you up.”

He kisses me, gently at first, then more demanding and he’s pressing against me now, his erection rubbing at my skin through the cloth of his underwear.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“God, yes.”

“Then get on your knees.”

He pulls down his pants and positions himself for me with his head and shoulders on the bed and his eyes hot with lust. Just looking at him like that makes me want to come. I lean over him to get the lube and condom from the bedside table, then kiss and lick along his back as I draw back. He puts his hands on his ass and holds himself open for me. For some moments, I run my tongue along his crack and push into him a few times, listening to his moans. He’s impatient tonight.

“Hurry,” he urges, wriggling his bottom a little.

I open him with my lubed finger, watching him writhe, and think that I could fuck a dozen guys at the clubs and I’d still be ready for him when I get back. It’s like an unquenchable thirst and he's the only fresh water in a desert. And then I don’t think much of anything anymore, other than how good it is and that I want it... want him, all the time.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

**PART TEN**

Giles Rigby is running around like a headless chicken, when he’s not too busy shouting at the waiters and his assistant, whom I really don't envy. He comes up to me and puts his hands out to straighten my jacket and I bat them away. I’ll be damned if I let him manhandle me like a child. I see his assistant’s eyes widen with shock.

“I’ve arranged eight interviews for you for tonight,” Rigby says. “I’ll signal you when it’s time.”

“I’m not doing eight interviews in one night.”

I see the assistant pull his head in a bit in anticipation of Rigby’s outburst, but his boss is surprisingly calm with me.

“You have contractual obligations, Mr. Taylor.”

“I'm aware of that, but the contract says six interviews, total. You should read it sometime.”

He's fighting for composure now. “Mr. Taylor...” But then he’s interrupted by the arrival of Frank Hartcourt, whom he needs to fawn over more than he needs to admonish me, so he rushes off to do just that. The assistant, whom I've yet to be introduced to, follows on his heel. He's obviously been paying close attention in the Rigby school of sycophancy.

I look at my paintings, which I've supervised being placed and lighted correctly for the last two days. They look great hanging up, even if I say so myself. Hartcourt’s really is a beautiful gallery, with its parquet flooring and off-white walls that show off the art without any distractions. It's also in a prime location and its excellent reputation will ensure that there will be enough guests. Whether they'll like my paintings is another matter.

Still, standing here amongst them so beautifully displayed, I’m beginning to feel some of the excitement that Brian's been projecting for the last few days. I know he's concerned by my lack of enthusiasm, however, I can’t help but expect this to be a complete washout. And even if it isn’t, maybe after tonight, Brian will understand why this has come far too late. I've seen the guest list.

Hartcourt comes over to stand beside me, looking at the paintings.

“I see you’ve already bought some,” I say, smiling. There are sold stickers on three of the paintings.

“Ah, well, couldn’t let Kinney be the only owner of an original Taylor, could I?”

I smile. Hartcourt has turned out to be a nice guy with a genuine interest in art. He's also provided an effective buffer between Rigby and me. Whenever I mention Hartcourt’s name, his gallery manager turns into a meek little kitten. I'll probably never find out, but I would dearly like to know what he said to him about me.

“Where's Kinney?”

“He’ll be here. Brian likes to make an entrance.” He promised to be here before the doors open, but he’s cutting it a bit fine. He only has fifteen minutes left.

Hartcourt chuckles. “That he does. Rigby giving you a hard time?”

I shrug. “I just don’t like him. He probably knows what he’s doing.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody likes him. That’s not his job. His job is to turn the talentless away and spot the odd one who isn’t. He’s good at that, but – God – he’s a pain in the ass.”

I chuckle. “That he is.”

There's a small commotion by the door where Rigby and his assistant are both trying to tell Brian that he can’t come in yet. Hartcourt and I watch with fascination as Brian turns his death glare on them and quietly says a few words that send them scarpering. Neither Hartcourt nor I felt it necessary to assist him. Brian Kinney really doesn’t need any help.

He comes sauntering over to us and my heart speeds up at the sight of him in his immaculate Armani suit. I only saw him three hours ago, but it doesn’t make any difference. Brian will always draw my attention anywhere and increase my heart rate – and make me hard, definitely that, though not quite at the moment because I’m too nervous. He shakes Hartcourt’s hand and gives me a kiss, with a lot more tongue than is strictly appropriate for the surroundings, but it’s just what I need.

Things have been going well for us over the last few weeks. Since the night he returned from the clubs and told me that he wouldn't bring any more guys back with him, I feel more at home. He doesn’t need to make promises and declarations to me. The fact that he just said it like that, casually, as if I should have known all along, shows me that I no longer have to worry about that. Now, when I’m at his place and he’s home late, I just go to bed and there's nothing like being woken up by a horny Brian.

I’m also spending more time there, even when he's at work. Granted, in the beginning, a lot of it was to do with trying to avoid Alex, which meant I tended to be home only when Alex was at university. It wasn’t as if Alex was actually doing anything, but he made doe eyes at me all the time and wanted to spend so much time with me. The only thing that consoled me with his presence was the fact that he and Marissa genuinely liked each other and got on so well. I felt I had no right to deprive her of that.

I got really annoyed when, a week after Alex moved in, his drawing table appeared in the studio. There's certainly enough space and the thing is enormous, but so is his room. Now he had an excuse to be in the studio whenever he felt like it and while he adhered to my rule of not talking when I’m working, he was still _there_ , all the time. It was pissing me off no end.

Brian dealt with that in his inimitable style. A few days later, he came over at lunch time. Alex was working, or pretending to work, and I was playing about with paint, because actually painting was impossible when I could feel his eyes on me all the time.

I was surprised when Brian turned up because he should have been at work and even more surprised that he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. He came in and introduced himself to Alex, chatting to him about architecture – is there any subject he can’t hold a conversation on? – before he came over to me. I could see Alex looking at him with a mixture of resentment and awe. No gay man will ever be unimpressed by Brian Kinney.

I'd wiped my hands clean and was just about to clean up properly to drag him away, because I wanted to be away from Alex to be with Brian, when he grabbed hold of me and pulled me into a passionate kiss. The kiss turned into a make-out session Kinney-style, all spit and tongue and moans and his hands on my ass, first outside, then inside my pants. I could see out of the corner of my eyes that Alex was trying not to look, but couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t until Brian started to pop the buttons of my jeans very slowly, one by one, and then slipped his hand around my straining cock, that Alex flounced out of the room, banging the door.

“You’re evil,” I grinned at him and the reason that he was wearing old clothes that he wouldn’t mind getting paint on was now very clear. “You planned this.”

“Yep,” he said, stroking me. “I asked Marissa to call me when you two are alone up here. I’ve got half an hour.”

There was really no reason to stop after that. He walked me backwards towards the window where he proceeded to undress me and then fucked me while I was bracing the window pane, which I eventually squirted with my come. The studio is on the top floor, so not many people can look in, except for the neighbors across the street and, like Brian always says, if they don’t want to watch, they can look away.

Afterwards, we went back to my room to shower and he dressed in his suit before he went back to work. It turned out that Marissa was tired of Alex mooning over me and had been only too happy to help Brian conduct this little exercise in bringing home reality. I was tempted to leave the window come-splattered just to ram the message home, but Marissa uses the studio, too, and anyway, I thought Alex got it. He didn’t speak to me for almost a week and since then he's been a lot less insistent. He also moved his drawing table back into his room. I think there’s a good chance that, given time, we'll be able to salvage our friendship. I can now appreciate that his presence is really giving me the freedom to do other things.

I still marvel at the fact, that Brian hasn’t queened out about my fuck buddy living in my home. He seems to be trusting me when I haven’t given him a lot of reason to do so or maybe he simply doesn’t care. His attitude to fucking other guys has always been different from mine. If he let one of his fuck buddies stay at his place, I don’t think I would be that relaxed about it, but I certainly appreciate it because, bar moving out, there isn’t an awful lot I can do about it.

The first person to turn up, when the gallery doors open, is Molly. She and Brian are my only personal guests. Marissa declined for tonight, but we’ve arranged for her to visit on Tuesday when it’s going to be a lot quieter. And there isn’t really anyone else I have any great desire to have here. Brian thought it would be a good idea to bring the gang round, but I think I’d like to suffer any possible disaster without an audience. Maybe next time. If there is a next time.

Molly looks stunning in a blue dress, with her straight posture and her hair piled up in an elaborate fashion. In her high heels, she's almost as tall as I am. She kisses me on the cheek and I introduce her to Brian. Her ‘hello’ to him is cold and reserved. I know that she has issues with him on account of me. At first, she blamed him for taking me away from the family. Then, there was a phase when she thought he was a pedophile and had turned me gay – yeah, I didn’t have to search long for the origin of that idea. During that time, she even shunned me. Later, she warmed to me again, but by then she resented him because she felt he treated me badly, especially after I moved to New York. I suppose, she just saw how unhappy I was and blamed him. Hell, _I_ blamed him.  

Brian just smirks at her frosty greeting, then turns to me and asks: “Does she take after your mom or your dad?”

I know he doesn’t mean in the physical sense because she's practically a clone of Mom. What he means is: is she being a bitch on principle or will she come round eventually?

“Mom, I hope,” I say and smile at Molly. She just frowns and wanders off to look at the art. I’m too nervous to deal with her at the moment. I told her that Brian would be here and she told me, for the umpteenth time, that she doesn’t understand how I can be with ‘that man’ again. I like being with ‘that man’ again and I want to keep it this way for as long as I can.

“You want me to look after her?” Brian offers.

“Wouldn’t be any use. She just broke up with her boyfriend and she hates all men in general, gay or straight, and you in particular, because you make her brother, oh, so unhappy. Or so she thinks.”

“Women always underestimate the power of a superior fuck. And what do _you_ think?”

“That you're making me happy just fine. And that the fucking is definitely superior.”

“Good to know,” he says and kisses me, a little longer than necessary, probably to piss Molly off.

People are trickling in now. Rigby is greeting them in his usual smarmy style and I’m glad I don’t have to. Hartcourt has also started a conversation with some visitors, showing them around and raving about my paintings. I already recognize two of them, rather hoping that they won’t recognize me, although that isn't likely.

An hour later, the gallery is nicely full. I can easily disappear in the crowd now or I could, if Hartcourt wouldn’t insist on dragging me around with him and introducing me. People are very complimentary, but then they always are to your face. I have three interviews with art magazines, which go without a hitch because they don’t seem to mind that I’m not saying much.

Brian is talking to a bunch of people and when I wander over there, he slings his arm around my shoulder and introduces me.

“Have we met?” one of the guys asks me. Here we go. He's one of Brian’s business associates and, yes, we’ve met before at a party where I was escorting one of the guests. What am I supposed to say to him? ‘ _Yes, it was at that party, I was the hired eye candy in the corner_ ’? But I’ll be damned if I hide from anyone. We have to confront the inevitable eventually.

“We met at Paul Franklin’s party in September.”

He looks at me again, still smiling. “Yes, I remember you now. You were there with Graham, weren’t you?” Regardless how tactless that remark is in Brian’s presence, I just smile tightly and watch his face. I can see the precise moment when he puts everything together, because his smile falters and he shoots Brian an uneasy look, before he coughs slightly and says, “I must say, your art's very impressive. I must take a closer look,” and scuttles off.

The other people in the group seem baffled by his behavior, but I know that Brian knows exactly what that was about. Maybe now he'll understand how much of a problem this really is, not for me so much, but for him. That guy is someone he does business with. Brian can’t be seen with someone who everyone thinks is a prostitute. His reputation in New York is nowhere near solid enough to survive that. I excuse myself and walk away, maybe Brian can salvage some of the situation without me there.

I’m hoping to find a quiet corner to regroup. In reality, all I want to do is crawl into a hole somewhere and never come out again. Life's incredibly unfair. Here we are, after five long years, together again and Brian is amazing right now. He has truly come into his own. He's the person I always saw in him, generous, caring, loyal and he's been so patient with me, putting up with all my moods. Slowly but surely, he's brought me back to life over the last few months. He wants to be with me and he finally doesn’t shy away from letting me know that. And I want to be with him. I love him. And then reality comes and smashes it all to pieces, like a baseball bat. That's actually not a bad analogy. Brian was ready for me that night as well, like he's ready now. I hate my life.   

I’m thinking about finding Molly, but I don’t get that far because I see Callum Leland coming towards me. He's smiling broadly and gives me a hug.

“Hey, Justin. This is great. You must be so proud. I never knew your paintings were so stunning.”

“Thank you.” I'm pleased to see him. He's never been anything but kind to me. The other day, we ran into each other at MoMA and shared an impromptu lunch, where he didn’t pay for the privilege of my company and I paid for my own food. It was rather refreshing.

“You know, if you'd told me that you paint, I would have put you in touch with Frank years ago.”

“Ah well, it just never occurred to me.” That isn’t the complete truth. I never told any of my clients that I paint because that was private. I always felt it would somehow sully my art if I mixed it with my escorting. And I didn’t want to leave myself open to the incredulous looks and remarks of ‘really? _You_ paint?’ that would be inevitable, given the situation. Although Cal would be the last person to say something like that.

“So, how's it going?” he asks, lowering his voice slightly. “It looks like a good turnout.”

“Yeah, lots of people turned up. Don’t think any of them would tell _me_ what they really think about it.”

“I can tell you.” I turn a little to see Larry appear next to Cal. “It’s crap, like all modern art.” Larry is stunningly beautiful in an exotic kind of way, with jet black hair, flawless bronzed skin, a dancer’s body and dark smoldering eyes. His ass and package are very promising, too. Unfortunately, he ruins it all every time he speaks. Luckily, I’ve only met him briefly on a couple of occasions.

“Well, thank you so much for your expert opinion,” Cal says mockingly. “We all know that you know so much about art.” Yeah, or about anything at all, really. “Don’t mind him, Justin, he’s just mad that we're coming here first before we go clubbing.” He turns to his boyfriend, who must be phenomenal in the sack, because he hasn't much else going for him. “I said you didn’t have to come.”

“I don’t know why _you_ had to come here either,” Larry replies sullenly.

“I didn’t. I wanted to. Justin's a friend of mine.”

“Since when?” Larry looks at me properly for the first time, his eyes moving up and down my body as if I’m some insect he’s studying. I feel a presence next to me and know without looking that Brian has arrived. Then Larry’s eyes go wide. “Hey, I know you. You’re that hustler that Cal hires sometimes.”

I instinctively put my hand on Brian’s arm, as he takes a step forward and he stops, glaring at Larry.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cal hisses at his boyfriend. “Why don’t you just go home for now?”

“What? You’re sending _me_ home?” Larry's almost shouting now. “You choosing this... this _rent boy_ over _me_?”

And that's when I lose my grip on Brian’s arm and he punches Larry right on the chin. It’s the second time I’ve seen Brian punch someone and his aim and force are perfect because, just like Michael, Larry lands on his ass in the middle of the gallery.

Everything's deadly quiet for a moment while Brian shakes out his aching hand and Cal bends down to pull his boytoy unceremoniously up off the floor and give him a good push towards the door. “I’m sorry, Justin,” he says over his shoulder. “I should never have brought him here.” Then he hauls Larry outside.

People are still staring at us and then I hear a voice from behind me. “A bit late trying to defend the boy’s honor, don’t you think, Kinney? We all know what he is.” I turn to see Charles Farnsbrook smirking at Brian.

“At least he has an honor worth defending,” Brian says quietly to himself, but it’s loud enough for most people to hear in the silence. There are some scattered chuckles and then everybody's talking in hushed voices. I take Brian’s hand to look at it and there are red marks over his knuckles.

“Are you all right?”

He nods. “Yeah, hurts like fuck though. Are you okay?”

“Of course.” I kiss his hand gently and then cup his cheek. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“He deserved it. What was that all about anyway? I take it that was...”

“Cal’s boyfriend. I’ve met him a couple of times before. I think he was always worried that I would deprive him of his meal ticket.”

“Jeez and I thought Leland was an intelligent guy.”

“I think he’s thinking with his other head where Larry's concerned.”

“The guy must be some fuck... I’m going for a smoke. Will you be all right? I’ll be back in ten minutes – if security lets me back in.”

I kiss him gently and watch as he walks towards the door. Halfway there, Frank Hartcourt joins him and, after a few words, they walk out together. Hopefully, that will ensure that they're going to let him back in. If they don’t, I’ll leave with him. I’ve had about as much of this as I can stand. Tonight, I want to celebrate with just him, in our own unique style, one last time.

And here comes Molly and she doesn't look amused. Great. Just what I need.

 

******

 

I’m not sure what Marissa was thinking when she moved that guy into her house, but it has turned out to be a blessing in disguise. At first I was fuming. Justin and his fuck buddy in the same house? Yeah, not really something I want to think about. But we have no rules, so I can’t make any demands. It helped that Justin seemed extremely pissed off about it. I couldn’t really work out what his problem was until he said the word sanctuary one night.

Justin always thinks that I don’t understand how tough things have been for him and maybe for the longest time I didn’t. I viewed him as a privileged country club brat from the suburbs, who had a few very tough breaks and seemed to cope admirably. And didn’t his mom come round after a while and was just as supportive as she’d always been?

But then Babylon blew up and suddenly I realized what it's really like when something you’ve taken for granted, something you expected to always be there and loved and treasured is taken away without warning. It was different from the bashing. That was a unique situation, a one-off, which happened out in breederland and it took something from me that I had no right to put my hands on in the first place. The bombing was on my own turf, where I had the right to feel at home and safe. The expression having the rug pulled out from under your feet pretty much covers it. Nothing is the same afterwards. You start to question everything in your life, even yourself and your beliefs. Nothing's solid any longer.

Justin had that happen to him a few times and he was a lot younger when it did. He lost his father and his home when he came out, his belief in his immortality when he was bashed, his self-image when his body no longer worked the way he wanted it to afterwards and then someone tried to blow him up and he somehow got lost in New York. The last straw was losing his mother. That was his last safe place. I can understand that he clings to Marissa and his place in her life because, God knows, I haven’t exactly made him feel any safer, even when he was living with me.

So what I’m trying to do at the moment is create a new sanctuary for him. I make sure that he knows that my place is a trick-free zone because I always knew that bothered him. I just never before considered that maybe he had a right to feel that way. His queening out over Alex showed me that he needs to feel safe in his own home and not have to worry about who might turn up. That’s easily done since I don’t particularly like bringing tricks home anymore. They’re always more difficult to get rid of once they’re there.

He seems more comfortable now. He has his own key. His spare clothes are in my wardrobe. Those heart attacks on a plate that he calls food are in the kitchen. His sketchpads have turned up recently and he’s even got CDs and DVDs lying around. If I bought an easel, he would probably start painting in the spare room, but I’m not pushing this. It takes time.

I even helped him sort Alex out by giving the guy a show in the studio until he stormed off. I was curious what this guy would be like, expecting Ian 2.0, but he was nothing like that, less cute, more mature and a lot less full of himself. Maybe under different circumstances, I might have felt sorry for him. As it was, seeing him alleviated a lot of my worries, especially seeing him with Justin, who was nothing but frustrated with him. Not a hint of attraction in sight. Still, I suppose, marking my territory didn’t hurt. I'm still surprised that Alex didn’t move out the next day. Maybe his having nowhere else to go is true after all.

What concerns me at the moment is Justin’s lack of interest in his show. Wasn’t this ultimately what he came to New York for? He seems to view it almost as a chore. I get that he doesn’t want to hope for too much after years of rejection and I know he thinks I had a hand in it. I didn’t. The interest in his paintings at Kinnetik is genuine. Twice last year, Cynthia had calls from businessmen who had heard of the artwork at my offices and asked if they could visit to see it while they had business in Pittsburgh. I could probably charge an entrance fee. As it was, I made sure to show them around personally and to have a sales pitch ready for them. But, yeah, it had nothing to do with me.

I told him that and his answer was: “So, I’ll be rich and famous. So what?” What the fuck? It’s not important to him any longer? Well, if he genuinely doesn’t care whether it’s a success or not, then his lack of enthusiasm is understandable. I'm rather hoping that it'll get him out of his funk, that he'll stop this woe-is-me bullshit and start treating me and our friends like he used to, with confidence and attitude. People are starting to think that I’m trying to keep him from them, especially Debbie. It’s not my fault that he's too embarrassed to talk to them.

He has nothing to be embarrassed about. For the last few years, he's managed to support himself and provide his sister with a very expensive education. So, it wasn’t the life he and all of us had envisaged for him when he moved here, but who cares about that? Well, Justin does, obviously. And I know the problem is not that all of us look on him as a child, it's rather that he does or that he thinks we do. We know full well that he always had a maturity that most of us still had to grow into when we met him. Maybe that’s the problem, that he was ahead of us in some ways and now he no longer is. Whatever it is, I'm hoping that a successful show will cure him of that and give him a push in the right direction because, quite frankly, I’m running out of patience. He's hard work at the moment and I’m not good at these things.

When I arrive at the gallery, some idiot tries to tell me I can’t come in yet, but he realizes very quickly that he’d do well to revise that idea. Justin is standing with Hartcourt. I know that Hartcourt is pretty convinced that the whole show is just a formality. He’s been showing pictures of Justin’s paintings to his friends for a couple of years now. There isn't an art lover left in New York who won’t be curious to see this and once they’re through the door, they will buy. I know this and Hartcourt knows it. Justin is the only one who has doubts.

Molly is the first one through the doors and she looks like a very young Jennifer Taylor, only with reddish hair. She's not tall, but her high heels and her impeccable posture make her appear so and she's quite stunning. I've never met her before, because I never did the family things with Justin, like Sunday dinner, and whenever I dropped him off or picked him up at his mother’s house, Molly was never around.

I can feel an arctic chill blowing my way when I'm introduced to her. Another Taylor who hates me on sight, what else is new? I can’t help wondering if this is going to be a temporary getting-used-to-each-other or a permanent you’re-the-scum-of-the-earth thing. Both is possible in the Taylor family, as we all know. Justin seems to think it’s the former. I can live with that.

Then the gallery starts filling up and Justin has to go and do the schmooze with the other guests and the press. Looking around, I realize that I know an extraordinary amount of people here, either through my business or through Frank Hartcourt, who in the beginning seemed to be hell-bent on introducing me to anybody he’s ever met. It gives me a smug feeling to think how well established I already am, even though Kinnetik, NY, has been trading for less than six months. I did rather a lot of ground work before we opened our branch here. There was no way I was going to fuck this up.

The next time I see Justin is when he comes up to me while I'm talking to Neville Stuart and his wife and daughter. Percy Wilson is also there. Both Stuart and Wilson are clients of mine. I put my arm over Justin’s shoulder and introduce him to everybody. Ann Stuart gushes a little about the art and then Wilson asks Justin where he knows him from and I can feel him tense against my side. And yes, I really didn’t need to know that he was with another guy at a party last year, thank you very much, though he was almost certainly escorting, not socializing. Oh shit! I realize what is happening way before Wilson and when he looks at me uneasily, I meet his eyes with an unconcerned smile.

As he scuttles off, Justin excuses himself and does the same. I’m trying to catch his eye because I’m worried how he feels about this, but his refusal to look at me tells me enough. Has he learned nothing from his bullying experiences at St James? Never let anybody see how affected you are, then they'll lose interest. I don’t think Wilson meant any harm or was in any way contemptuous. It looked more like embarrassment to me.

I try to disengage from the Stuarts without looking to be in a hurry and when I get over to Justin, he's talking to Leland again and some hottie. This must be the fabled boyfriend and I have to say, he's almost hot enough to make me forgive Leland for losing this head over him and maybe he's like Justin, whose appearance belies his character. Or not, because this guy mouthes off at Justin and I know I have to stop him before he does any real damage. Justin's sensitive enough on this subject and I’ll be damned if I let this guy ruin his night.

You could say, hitting him is a strategic move. I’m not a violent man; not counting Mikey, I haven’t hit another guy in two decades. I’m not even particularly angry, more concerned about Justin’s feelings, however misguided they might be. It's just the quickest and, most likely, the only way to shut him up. Any mouthing off he's likely to do after being knocked down will be aimed at me and I’m a big boy, I can take it. It seems even his boyfriend is more concerned with Justin than with him. Only Charles Farnsbrook has something to say and I wonder if this would be a good time to expose him for his idea of fun, but in the end it’s all about damage control and playing things down.

To my surprise, Justin isn't particularly upset, more concerned about me. Well, that would be in keeping with his general attitude towards tonight. I need a smoke. On my way outside, Frank Hartcourt stops me short.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside. For a smoke.”

“I’ll join you.”

We move round the side of the building and take a couple of steps into an alleyway to get out of the bustle of the main road. New York is still insanely busy, even at this time of night. I light up and give Hartcourt a light. Then I wait for the inevitable dressing down. Not that I won’t defend myself, but Hartcourt has put a lot of work and money into this night and I can understand that he's not happy.

“Can I call you Brian?” he asks, throwing me off completely.

“Sure, Frank, go right ahead.”

“Where did you learn to throw a punch like that?”

“Good old Dad taught me well.” Not a lie at all, although his inference will be, but I’ll be damned if I disillusion him on that point.

“Well, I’m glad he did. I haven’t had this much fun in eons.” He notices my surprised look. “I can’t stand that little twerp.”

I have to laugh. “Still, it put a dampener on the evening.”

“Are you kidding? And here I thought you were the great god of advertising. This is the best publicity we can get. No critic will ever forget Justin Taylor’s first opening. They won’t write about it because it’s not in keeping with their arty-farty self-image to talk about such lowly things, but they'll sure as hell remember it.”

He has a point there, but for me this is not about publicity or reputation. This is about how Justin feels about himself. I need this night to go well for him, so that he can be Justin again, the way he was, the way he’s meant to be, the way I need him to be. I wouldn’t have resorted to such drastic measures if I didn’t think that this night's going to decide what our future will look like.

“You are the real deal, aren’t you?” Frank asks.

I nod. Yeah, I am. Not a client, not a fuck buddy, I’m the real deal alright. I always was.

“How long has it been going on?”

“Ten years.”

Frank chokes on the smoke from his cigarette and coughs.

I have to grin. “So, am I allowed back in?”

He just laughs.

Inside, I have to brave Molly Taylor and she has a lot to say for herself. I listen to her tirade about how I'm the most obnoxious human being she's ever come across, how I ruined Justin’s night, how I can’t be trusted in polite society, how selfish I am and... the list goes on. Luckily, she has inherited her mother’s aversion to public scenes, so she just quietly hisses at me until Justin says in an icy voice: “Shut up, Molly. It’s late. Why don’t you go home?”

“You’re taking _his_ side?”  

“Because you have no idea what you’re talking about. Please, just go home and I call you tomorrow.”

She looks incredulous, then turns on her heel and stalks out of the gallery. She does it rather well. There's certainly poise and grace there and a lot of the men in the room look after her with appreciation. I can imagine her being a great dancer.

Justin leans against me for a moment. “Can we go home now?”

“Not really. You have to stay until most people have gone. And you have to talk to them to show them that nothing out of the ordinary happened. You want them to go home thinking how charming you are, not wondering what the punch-up was all about.”

He sighs. “Okay, let’s make nice.”

When we wander around, talking to people, there's not a hint of him being upset or despondent. Justin can turn on the charm at the switch of a button almost as well as I can. Must be his country club upbringing. Certainly a useful skill for an escort to have. People are a little reserved at first, even the ones that know either one or both of us. They're probably wondering if it’s safe to talk to me, or if they should expect a punch in the face if they say the wrong word. But a few quiet conversations later, the atmosphere becomes more relaxed. Justin really can charm the birds off the trees, when he wants to or maybe it’s just due to all the free drinks.

At the end of night, Ruby, or whatever that creepy gallery manager's called, is ecstatic. A dozen paintings have been sold and even with Frank buying three of them, apparently it’s a great success. Justin has a pocket full of cards from agents, critics and people interested in commissions and is a hell of a lot richer than he was four hours ago. He's also no longer in his strangely detached mood and smiles broadly. Finally.

 

When I wake up in the morning, I'm alone in bed. Still a little groggy from just having woken up and a little sore from our night time activity – Justin seemed insatiable last night – I stumble into the bathroom and after I finish in there, I throw on some sweatpants and go in search of him. I’m hoping that pissing and brushing my teeth will be all I have to do until after our morning fuck. In fact, I’m wondering why I have to go looking for my morning fuck in the first place, when usually he’s all ready and waiting for me in bed in the mornings. He probably went to get the morning papers to read the reviews. Ah well, I can indulge him until after he’s finished. He deserves the praise that I have no doubt will be lavished on him in the Arts sections.

But when I get to the living room, he’s just sitting there, fully dressed, not doing much of anything. I have an unwelcome flash of déjà vu, and it’s unwelcome not just because he's dressed. There's something in the atmosphere that makes me shiver. His good mood didn’t last all that long after all.

“Hey. Did you get the papers?” No way did he get bad reviews, no way in hell.

“Not yet.”

I wait, but when nothing else comes, I turn towards the kitchen, intending to start the coffee, when my eyes fall on his duffle bag by the front door. A quick look around confirms my suspicion. All his things are gone and the cold feeling in my stomach is also unwelcome and familiar. We’ve been here before. Twice. Once, he cleared everything out while I was at work and I was grateful for that. The second time, he was all packed and ready and it came out of the blue, just like it does now.

I turn back to him and he's watching me, biting his bottom lip nervously.

“What’s going on, Justin?”

“I have to leave, surely you can see that?”

“I can see that you _are_ leaving. I’m a bit fuzzy on the why you might _have to._ ”

“Oh come on, Brian, don’t play dumb. This is hard enough as it is.”

“Doesn’t have to be. Unpack and then we can tend to other hard things.”

He rolls his eyes and I remember that the sexual innuendo route didn’t work so well last time we were in this situation, either. Okay, time to regroup, no need to make the same mistakes over and over again. The first time he left was because I didn’t say the right things, the second time was because I didn’t do the right things, so if I do and say the right things, everything will be fine. If I only knew what the fuck the right things are in this case.

I run my hand through my hair and wish I had taken the time to shower. On the other hand, he might have run off by the time I’d be finished. I try again.

“What's going on, Justin?”

“You need a partner, Brian, someone who won’t embarrass you. Someone who’s your equal.”

“I know. Know anybody who fits that description?”

He sighs and is getting ready to get up and, no doubt, leave, so I quickly step forward a couple of steps and see him relax back into the couch.

“You are my partner. All equal and un-embarrassing. What's the problem here?” This is so much better than last time, when I wanted to ask him to stay but nothing would come out. I’ve learned a lot since then. If he needs the words, he can have them. It won’t kill me and it'll make him happy and a happy Justin is good for me. But I can see straight away that it’s not enough.

He smiles wanly. It’s his ‘I acknowledge your effort but...’ smile. Damn. I scramble around in my brain for something else to say.

“The show went great. You’re a success. You can be proud of yourself... I am.”

“I sold some paintings. Made some money.” He doesn’t sound in any way proud. “It’s peanuts compared to what you’re making.”

“It’s not a competition, Justin.” Please, don’t tell me he’s not going to be happy until he makes as much money as I do. In that case, we’ll be struggling with this issue until we’re both retired. No way is his art ever going bring in as much as Kinnetik is. “Are you telling me you can only be my equal if you earn as much money as I do? That’s just fucked.”

“It would be a start.”

“Justin.” I’m pinching the bridge of my nose to concentrate and keep my temper. “Does that mean that if you become a famous artist of Van Gogh proportions and sell your paintings for 20 million apiece, I'd have to leave because I’m no longer your equal? Since when is it about money? Who gives a flying fuck about money?”

He hesitates. I’m getting through to him, thank fuck! I’m watching him thinking it over, willing him to get a grip and to stop being so fucking anal over money. I’m all for being your own man, standing on your own feet and pulling equal weight, but I can’t let Kinnetik go bust just so he can feel better. I’ll be damned if I apologize or feel bad about being successful. Nobody’s asking him to bring the same amount of money to the table. Nobody thinks he’s sponging of me. Nobody thinks, or has ever thought, as far as I know, that he’s a gold digger. If anything, most people probably think it’s just desserts for putting up with me for so long, if anybody, except Justin, ever thinks about it at all.

He nods a few times and just as I step forward again, relieved, he says: “But that’s not really the point, is it?”

 _Keep calm, Kinney._ I’m beginning to think that no matter what I do or say, this is not going to go my way. Story of my life. But this time I’m not giving up without a fight. “What _is_ the point?”

“You hit someone last night.”

 _That's_ what he’s upset about? Leland’s boyfriend? He can’t be serious.

“Listen, I know I made a spectacle of myself last night. But the guy was a pain in the ass. I lost my temper. He deserved it and I’m not gonna apologize for that.”

“That’s just it, Brian. You never lose your temper. I made you do that.”

“If _you_ had made me lose my temper, I would have hit _you_.”

He breathes deeply as if he’s trying to explain something to a very slow child. “How many people did you know last night?”

“More than half of them. Why?”

“Clients?”

“Most of them. A few acquaintances from social functions. Why?”

“Do you know how many I knew? Apart from you and Molly and the gallery people?”

Not really particularly interested, but I’m sure he’s going to tell me, hopefully with an explanation attached, although this is the new Justin, so I won’t hold my breath for that last part. He’d better not tell me that we have to know an equal amount of people, too.

“Twenty-five. Nine were former clients. Four of them I slept with. The rest of them I met when I was _with_ clients. And most of them recognized me, like that guy who ran off when you introduced me to him.”

“You’re an artist, Justin. You can fuck as many people as you like and it just makes you more interesting. And anyway, there must have been at least half a dozen guys there last night that I fucked, including two of the waiters. Plus, if someone hires you as an escort, they can hardly claim the moral high ground afterwards.”

“I agree, my clients can hardly claim to be any better than me. I needed the money. What’s their excuse? But the people I’ve met _through_ my clients, they definitely have the moral high ground. Like that Wilson guy you introduced me to.”

“You know you’ve done nothing wrong. Since when do you give a fuck what anyone thinks about you?”

“I don’t.”

“Good...”

“I care what they think about _you_.”

“What?”

“You’re a businessman. Your reputation is part of your currency. If you're seen with a rent boy, you'll lose a lot of clients. If you're forced to hit people to defend said rent boy, it’s even worse. Add to that that you’re gay and have to be better than straight people and are held to higher standards ... you must see how it's impossible for us to be partners. You'd have to hide me and keep me away from your business and I don’t think I can live like that. I told you it was too late. You’ve worked so hard to get to New York, you can’t risk it all for me. I can’t understand that you haven’t worked that out by now.”

It would probably not be a good idea to laugh in his face right now because he's so earnest and genuinely upset. So this has been bothering him the whole time? This is the reason for his reserve, for not moving in? Maybe Melanie was right about him suffering from depression. The old Justin would never have considered this an issue.

“First of all, nobody forced me to hit the guy. I wanted to. Secondly, nobody in their right mind would ever hold me to a higher standard, or any standard at all, because I simply wouldn’t measure up. I’ve never made a secret of who I am. My reputation is for my work and if that isn’t enough, people can fuck off. The people who think I’m a pedophile and frequent rent boys wouldn’t do business with me anyway. And of the people who do, even the tolerant ones expect a sex scandal every third week of the month. I’m gay. I’m used to breeders thinking weird stuff about me. Hasn’t done my business any harm so far. And last but not least, you were never a rent boy. And even if you were, I wouldn’t care. You can have it tattooed on your forehead and I wouldn’t care and I would still introduce you as my partner, though I’d rather you didn’t get a tattoo anywhere. I like your skin the way it is.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“No, I mean it. Don’t get a tattoo.”

“Brian, you can’t really believe that it won’t impact on your business to be seen with me!” He's angry now, probably because of my attempt at levity.

“Oh, I’m banking on its impact. Pretty soon you'll be a hot commodity and people will be pestering me to be introduced to you. I intend to take full advantage of that.” I keep up the lighter tone, although I believe I’m actually not that far off the truth. Big mistake. He’s obviously not ready for humor.

He gets up and walks towards the door. “This is ridiculous. You’re being deliberately obtuse. You know that it’s impossible. I can’t let you do this. You’ve always wanted to come here. I can’t fuck this up for you.” He’s picking up his duffle bag and opening the door.

In my mind I can see the door shut behind him and another few years disappearing down the drain. Not this time, Sunshine! I’m there before he has the door open more than a couple of inches. It shuts with a thud when I push him against it with my body, bracing my hands against the door on either side of his head.

“You wanna know what’s really ridiculous here?” I growl in his ear. “It’s this martyr bullshit that you’ve been pulling all along. I don’t care how much money you have. I don’t care if you never ever sell another painting. I don’t care if you fucked every guy in New York, for money or for free, and I don’t care if everybody knows it. I'll survive. My business will survive. What I do care about and what I can’t do anymore is that whenever there’s a problem, whenever we have a fight, you walk. Stay and fight it out! Shout and scream, throw things, cry, I don’t care. But don’t you ever, _ever_ walk out on me again!”

He's very still now. Against my chest, I can feel his body heaving with the effort to take a breath, as I’m pressing him against the door. “Okay.”

“I mean it, Justin. Promise me that I'll be able to speak my mind. I want to be able to argue and fight, and I want you to argue and fight right back. But don’t you ever just walk away again when the going gets tough. I can’t hold my tongue all the time because I’m worried you’ll run off. And you don’t want that either, right? You want to know what I think, right? I wanna know what you think. Speak to me. Scream if you have to. We'll talk about this, if you want, but don’t walk. _Ever_. Because I really can’t take that anymore.”

Justin takes a shuddering breath. “I promise.”

“Now do you need to argue some more about this or can I fuck you against this door now?”

Another shuddering breath. “You can fuck me in a moment, but only if you step back a little because I can’t fucking breathe.” He turns around to face me when I give him a little more room. “I need you to promise me something, too.”

“What?”

“I need you to promise me that you won’t let me go again. No more pushing me away. No more taking this back. No more pretending that we don’t love each other. Ever. No matter what. Promise me.”

“Justin, you know I’m not good with this mushy stuff. I’ll fuck it up.”

“I’m not asking for romantic gestures and love declarations. I’m asking you to not let me go again. I don’t need you to ever say the words again. I just need to feel them and I need to know that you're not taking them back and pretend we don’t love each other. Don’t take this away from me again. Please.”

“You promise to never walk out on me again?”

“Maybe just for a short walk to cool off, but not _walk_ out. I promise.”

“Then I promise not to let you go again.”

He kisses me softly, with his hands in my hair and his tongue dancing with mine. I’m thinking about fucking him right here against the door and I’m certainly horny enough for it, but then I imagine laying him out on the bed and savoring his body and looking at him while I’m inside him. There's just one more thing I have to do. Well, I don’t have to, but I want to.

“Justin?”

“Hhm?”

“Just so you know...I love you.”

He laughs and for the first time, he sounds genuinely happy. “I know.”

The little shit. I’ll just have to take that out on his ass.

 

 

 

**EPILOGUE**

Brian strolls into the bar and his face breaks into a smile when he sees me. He looks beautiful in his suit and I can see people’s heads turn as he walks past, men and women alike.

“Well, haven’t been here for a while,” he says, as he slips into the seat beside me.

“Do you miss it?” I lean in a little, just to be closer to him and, to my surprise, he kisses me on the forehead. He isn’t usually given to PDAs, especially when we’re in places that are so obviously hetero, but sometimes he just does it and it's so much more precious for being rare.

“Like a bullet in the head.” He gulps down the whisky I ordered for him, when one of the Four Seasons’ Hotel staff comes to tell us that our table is ready. This is our second call because Brian is a little late and the table has been ready for ten minutes. He puts his hand at the small of my back as we walk towards the restaurant and that feeling of pride never really diminishes.

“Did you speak to Debbie?” he asks when we're seated and have ordered our drinks.

Debbie took Brian and me being back together in her stride, as if she never expected anything else. The first phone call was hard, but I think Brian prepped her a little and she never gave me a hard time. Neither did anybody else in the gang. We're all going to meet up in Pittsburgh in a couple of weeks for Hunter’s birthday.

“Yeah, she told me to warn you that Hunter's bringing his girlfriend.”

“Ah, well, it’s his party. Maybe we can forgive him just this once. I can reminisce with her about what it’s like to be chased by the lad.”

“Don’t you dare. And anyway, I think she actually lets him catch her.”

He shudders at the idea. Yeah, I don’t particularly want to think about breeder sex either.

The waiter comes with our drinks and takes our orders for the meal. He’s eyeing Brian in that special way that guys have when they’ve had the Kinney experience and are hoping for an encore. Brian seems oblivious.

“What was he like?” I ask, when we’re alone.

He shrugs. “Ordinary. But keen. Needs practice.”

“I’m sure he got enough practice from you,” I tease. “How did the pitch go today?”

“It’s in the bag,” he says nonchalantly. He always does that, pretending it’s no big deal, but I know he's proud of his success and he should be. Kinnetik has its foot firmly in the door of the New York advertising world.

“Congratulations. Guess what?”

“What?” he says in that facetious tone that tells me he thinks I’m behaving like a teenager again, or even worse, a teenage girl.

“I sold my last painting today.”

“You sold orange and green blob?”

“It’s called _Paradigm._ ” Of course, he knows that. He just likes to wind me up a bit. In general, we have the same opinion about the pretentiousness of the art world. If it was up to me, all my paintings would be called untitled and just have a number. Luckily, I now have an agent who acts as a buffer between myself and what I call professional art lovers – gallery managers, critics and art collectors. She and I have an understanding in that I pay her a little extra to make sure I'm bothered as little as possible.

I always wanted to be an artist. What I didn’t bargain for was the art world. So now that I have a successful show under my belt, I plan on keeping away from that world as far as I possibly can. My agent is playing heavily on the eccentric recluse angle and so far it’s worked. It helps that I already have a second show in prospect, this time in Toronto. It’s a favor for Lindsay and it just happens to be around Gus’s birthday. Brian and I are planning to make a week of it.

He softens as he smiles. “Congratulations. Well done. So this dinner is to celebrate?”

“Partly. And of course it’s our special day.”

He looks at me with pursed lips, completely nonplussed but not wanting to admit it. Oh, this is going to be fun. I give my face a look of disappointment. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

He’s pulling his lips in and his eyes are scrutinizing my face, trying to work out how much trouble he’s in.

“It’s our anniversary, Brian.”

“Uhm... anniversary of what?”

“We met here exactly one year ago tonight.” It happens to be true, but that's incidental. For good measure, I throw in a little pout.

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of stress. “Justin... you know, I’m not good with this stu... actually, are you kidding me? What else do you wanna celebrate? First time we went for a meal? First blowjob?”

I snicker. “You’re adorable when you’re exasperated.”

“You little shit. You pay for that later.”

“Oh, I sincerely hope so.”

He’s grinning now and the way he raises his eyebrows makes me want to forego the meal and wish we had a room upstairs. However, the waiter returns to bring us our food, so I suppose it will have to wait.

“So this is in celebration of selling out your show?”

“Yeah. Do you realize that I only became a success because you have my paintings hanging up in your office in Pittsburgh?”

“Justin, I had nothing to do with it.”

“No, really. Think about it. Frank saw them there and liked them. And then he told other people about it and really and truly, if I'd stayed in Pittsburgh, I would have had just as much success. In fact, going to New York was a colossal waste of time because it didn’t further my career in any way. We could have been living happily married at Britin all this time with the same result.” Of course, that's no longer an option. Brian had to sell Britin to launch Kinnetik NY.

“I thought we decided on no more regrets?”

I shrug. “I think it’s good to remind ourselves what idiots we were, so that we don’t repeat our mistakes.”

“We won’t repeat our mistakes. Why bother when there are so many other ways to fuck up? We’ll find something new.”

I laugh. He always makes me laugh. That’s what I missed when we were apart, that there was no one and nothing that made me laugh. Okay, there were lots of other things I missed about him, too, everything about him really, I just missed him, all the fucking time.

He's grinning now and it gives me the courage to tell him something that I wanted to tell him for a while. Despite his promise, I still find it hard to say anything to him that could be in any way construed as mushy. His first instinct is always to ridicule me and that reflex usually gets me hurt, even though he's learned to take the sting out of it with a kiss or a smile or a word even, when he realizes that he’s doing it again. But the way I look at it, he can’t improve if I don’t keep trying, so every now and then I throw some sentimentality at him.

“You know, I came here because I got caught up in the excitement about the ArtForum article. But when I got here, I hated it. I despise everything to do with selling art. I wanted to be successful only so I could get back to you. I didn’t really care about showings and fame, I really just wanted to paint, at home, with you. That’s why I never bothered after we split up. Even when I had my show, apart from the money, it didn’t mean much because I thought we could never be together because of my escorting. How pathetic is that, eh?”

I certainly feel a little pathetic saying it to him. I’m still somewhat embarrassed about my past behavior in general. In the years I was alone in New York, I was so profoundly miserable that everything that went wrong grew to gargantuan proportions in my mind, even the non-issues like my escorting. Although I wasn’t talking to Brian at the time, I was always embarrassed about it, just thinking he might find out one day. Of course, when he finally did, he just laughed it off. I should have known that he would, he's always been a great supporter of the ‘you do what you have to do’ school of thought. Apart from his safety concerns, he never had a problem with it. And a couple of functions we've been attending for Kinnetik have proved him right. Nobody cares or, if they do, they daren’t say it to our faces and they certainly don’t make any business decisions on the basis of it. Kinnetik is as strong as ever. I feel incredibly stupid for worrying about it.

So why do I bother saying things to him that make me feel even more silly? Because I want to be able to say what I feel. Brian made me promise not to walk out on him again so that he can be himself without fear of losing me. I want the same thing. And he _is_ trying not to completely deflate me every time I say something emotional, I acknowledge that. But I still wait with some trepidation for his reaction. A soft smile would be a positive step, a silent caress would be a high score. He does neither.

“Not at all, really,” he says. He rubs the side of his index finger across his lips in a slightly embarrassed gesture and drops the bombshell: “It’s pretty much the only reason I worked flat out for four years. So I could move here and find you.”

_Oh. My. God!_

 

******  

 

I’m running late after my meeting and Justin is already waiting for me at the bar. As usual, he takes my tardiness in his stride. He should. Being half an hour late is nothing compared to what happens when he gets caught up in painting at his place. He's all smiles and beautiful and I can’t help but kiss his forehead in greeting, even in this place.

In the restaurant, we get served by the same waiter who served us at our last meal, when Justin stormed out on me. I ignore the guy making eyes at me, but Justin picks up on it anyway. Fuck only knows how he can always tell, but he can.

I’m proud of him that he sold the last painting he had in the show. He still hates the sales and fame side of his art with a passion, but at least he's developed a healthy pride in his achievements. His next show will be in Toronto. I think he’s trying to make amends with the gang for disappearing on them. He's also in talks with Michael about returning to Rage.

Then he tells me it’s a special day. Fuck! Now I know why he wanted me to meet him for dinner here, but I can’t for the life of me remember what he's talking about. And things were going so well, not just tonight, but for months now. What do I do now? Maybe I can fudge my way through? Probably not. I used to get annoyed when he was expecting me to remember hetero bullshit like anniversaries, but I’ve decided to try to oblige him. So, I don’t believe in these things, but he does and who’s to say that my opinion is more valid than his? If it makes him happy, I can play along, although he knows it means jack shit to me. And I draw the line at Valentine’s Day.

Wait a minute. He can’t be seriously wanting to celebrate that! ... The little shit! He just loves to wind me up. I'm imaging ways to punish him for that and am in the middle of a pretty elaborate scenario involving cuffs and maybe some spanking when the waiter brings the food. Ah well, the idea will keep for later.

He's right, of course, about how stupid we both were to pack him off to New York. I never really cared about his success other than that he deserves it and I didn’t want to stand in his way. It turns out that he didn’t really care that much either, only, he thought I was expecting it of him. He just wants to paint. And success would have found him in Pittsburgh anyway. We know that now. The futility of all this time spent apart is staggering, but there’s no need to dwell on it. I don’t really want to think about the time when we were living in different cities. It’s water under the bridge. But he looks so vulnerable when he tells me that all he wanted was to get back to me, obviously expecting me to mock him for it, that I decide to go for open and honest just this once.

“It’s pretty much the only reason I worked flat out for four years. So I could move here and find you.” It’s true, although throughout the entire time, I never once admitted it to myself. I know I wouldn't have regretted moving here even if things hadn’t worked out between us. The fact that Justin was always at the back of my mind as the single most motivating factor did come as quite a shock to me when I finally realized it. But before I can start regretting my unusual candor, I can see his eyes soften and his smile spreads and I know he’s just melting into a puddle of gooey feelings.

He has that goofy smile that tells me he's pleased and touched by what I said but doesn’t want to draw attention to it. So he chats away and I content myself with listening and enjoying a happy Justin and plying him with alcohol.    

In the cab, Justin's sitting in my lap and kissing me. “I need you to fuck me.”

Over his shoulder, I can see the cab driver eyeing us warily in the rearview mirror. “Don’t worry, we won’t do it here.”

“That’s good to know, buddy,” he calls back to me, but he keeps dividing his attention between the road and us.

“Since when are you such a prude?” Justin pouts.

“Driver’s a breeder,” I mumble before kissing him again.

“He can switch teams. You can make anybody switch teams.” He’s kissing along my jaw line now and his hands are starting to take off my clothes. Luckily in his inebriated state, the tie seems to cause him some difficulty.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think I’ll concentrate on you for tonight.”

Justin has finally managed to remove my tie. I deposit it safely in my jacket pocket while he starts unbuttoning my shirt. His hands are roaming my naked chest and I think the driver must have run every red light on the way because he comes to a stop outside my apartment building in record time. I gently push Justin off and out of the cab and he stands there, rocking on his feet, until I get out and pay the driver, which is when he starts pawing at me again.

I’m trying to keep a straight face and the cabbie's chuckling as well. Now that the danger of witnessing some gay porn up close and personal is averted, he's visibly relaxed as he takes the money including a large tip.

“You’re a lucky guy. I wish the wife was that keen on me,“ he says before he drives off.

Justin grins at me. “You’re sooo lucky.” He kisses me again and I drag him past the doorman and into the elevator before he decides to undress me completely out in the open. I can barely fit the key in the door of the apartment because we're too busy kissing and during the elevator ride have advanced to groping.

“Now, will you fuck me?” he demands to know.

“Now I will fuck you,” I say agreeably, while I kick the door shut with my foot.

He's starting to get undressed by the door, dropping his clothes as I walk him backwards to the couch, still kissing him. I'm neither drunk nor high, so my expensive suit will not end up on the floor all night but draped over the couch. Justin's finished getting naked before me and is kissing and licking my back. I crane my neck over my shoulder and he stands on tiptoes so we can kiss while his hands roam my chest and pinch my nipples lightly.

Horny Justin is always a lot of fun. No matter what mood he's in the rest of the day, when it comes to fucking he's always there, always playful and energetic. I pull him in front of me to kiss him thoroughly before spreading him over the back of the couch and pushing into him. He's moaning and pushing back onto me and hissing demands and finally sighing, “God, I love you.”

Afterwards, when I slowly get back to my senses after collapsing over his back, I spot some moving boxes in the corner by the front door. They're already unpacked, collapsed and folded, and ready to go back to the moving company.

I pull out carefully and Justin turns and kisses me.

“You’ve moved in then.” Not quite a statement but not a question either.

“Yeah, that’s what we're really celebrating tonight.”

“Good, but don’t think it'll get you out of your punishment. Go and position yourself on the bed.”

His smile and quiet ‘yes, sir’ go straight to my dick. I follow him with my eyes as he makes his way into the bedroom, smiling invitingly over his shoulder. His ass is still the most perfect I’ve ever seen and I can’t quite believe that he’s all mine again. I missed him pretty much all the time when he was gone. Switching off the lights after I’ve set the alarm, my eyes fall on the moving boxes in the corner again.

I can’t say that I haven’t been concerned in the ten weeks since his show, that he was still living at Marissa’s, although, with Alex picking up the slack, Justin definitely spent more time here than he did there. But despite his promise not to run out on me again, I couldn’t help wondering if and when the other shoe would drop. Now it has, and to my great surprise, it has landed squarely on the shoe rack next to my Prada boots.

Alone in the living room, on my way to join him in _our_ bed, I allow myself a sigh of relief.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


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